


Surviving Peace

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, coping after the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3944068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history books will write down that they won, that their last desperate move paid off and they defeated Sauron. But for some, seeing the fields where just a year ago they had been fighting, where they could have died, can bring back the worst and the best memories at the same time. Aragorn and Legolas in Minas Tirith, a year after the war that none of them are sure is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as I just finished my first week of exams (it was hell), and managed to finish writing this a few days ago, HAVE A NEW STORY!
> 
> This takes place about one year after the War of the Ring, and is mainly book-verse. Some unspecified time after the war, Legolas began an elven colony in Ithilien. In the books, Faramir also ends up living in Ithilien with Eowyn. You shouldn’t have to read any of my other fics to understand anything in this. The only things you may miss are a few hints at previous works. My OC Belhadron appears here, for any of those who wanted to know a bit more about him- you get hints of a backstory here, as well as (hopefully) some snarky funny bits from him as well.
> 
> This focuses very much on the mental and emotional impact of everything all the characters went through. I definitely don’t want this to come across as some privileged person writing about something they know nothing about. I consider myself very lucky to be pretty much mentally alright, and I make no presumption to understand what people may be going through, and think those who do are incredibly courageous.
> 
> But I did want to write this- steer away from the easier physical angst and explore the emotional side of things more, push myself to explore emotions without resorting to injuring someone (I’ve mostly succeeded in this fic- the only injuries are for plot purposes). I wanted to try and do everything that this story deals with justice.
> 
> So yeah, I really hope that nobody is in any way offended by this, but if so, I apologise. In no way was that my intent. Light trigger warnings for PTSD and associated ideas- there is nothing explicit that I believe could trigger anything, but I don't know, so I will warn in the notes before a chapter is there is anything that might be problematic for some people.

“Riders approaching!”

They could hear the call going out from the great walls of the city as they approached, and their sharp ears picked up the subtle sound of hurrying feet on white stones. Finally within sight of their destination, the two horses pricked their ears and seemed to find some more energy, the beat of their hooves pounding rhythmically on the road as the two of them rode in.

The gates grew closer and closer, and both horses slowed. The war had not been over long enough for the wariness that had existed for so long to disappear and both riders knew full well how such a thing could linger. Still there was an urge to check over your shoulder, for your hand to remain close to your weapon. It had been just over a year, but most of the time it felt like only a month, or like it hadn’t even happened yet.

The horses came into view from the small party standing within the courtyard, and Aragorn allowed a smile to come across his face as he recognised the smaller grey horse riding in. Behind him the various council members and guards that he had been unable to shake stepped forwards in various stages of excitement.

Aragorn could sense the moment when Faramir, standing by his shoulder, turned and subtly glared at the men behind them, and they stepped back. Aragorn nodded ever so slightly, knowing Faramir would see it and take it as what it was meant, a thank you.

The pounding of hooves on the dirt road grew louder, and Aragorn’s attention turned towards the open gates. These were not the great gates that Minas Tirith had once bore, nor were they yet the gates that Gimli had promised the city. These were wooden, strong enough to provide some protection and reassurance to those in the city, but hastily constructed and crude. There were still some scorch marks on the white stone walls beside them.

Around the courtyard people were gathering, or had already gathered upon hearing the news of the immanent arrival. Aragorn could spy many children in the crowd, watching with excited faces. Even though the Queen was an elf, and the people of Gondor were largely a learned people, elves were still held in regard as something a little more akin to tales than real life.

Finally the two horses passed through the gate and pulled to a halt in the courtyard. Aragorn heard the excited squeal of a child before it was hushed. But his attention was soon turned to the arrivals, and he stepped forwards, a smile on his face as a lithe blond figure swung down from the grey horse.

“Legolas,” said Aragorn warmly, and then the blond elf was firmly in his embrace. Legolas laughed, his voice merry, and embraced Aragorn back.

“I have missed you, mellon-nin,” he said, pulling back. “It is a long way from home to here.”

Aragorn nodded. “I know,” he said. His gaze went past Legolas to the other rider, who had dismounted from a large bay horse, the stallion’s dark red coat rippling in the noon sunshine.

“Belhadron,” he said in greetings. “Welcome to Minas Tirith.” The dark-haired elf stepped forwards to clasp Aragorn’s arm.

“It is good to see you again, Estel,” he said in a lilting accent, the Westron seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. Aragorn smiled and said something in Sindarin, the councillors all listening in eagerly to hear the rolling tongue that none of them understood.

Aragorn stepped back and introduced Belhadron to Faramir, Legolas having already stepped over and greeted him. They exchanged a few words, before Aragorn apologetically grimaced and muttered a few words about council members. Legolas smiled, saying something to Belhadron in a language that sounded nothing like Sindarin, though was obviously elvish, and Belhadron chuckled, a slightly wicked grin coming across his face for a few moments. Aragorn turned and the council members and various other people in the entourage stepped forwards.

Faramir watched the two elves and the King as they passed through the courtiers. Aragorn he could read fairly well now after a year of being his Steward, and he could tell, even if he didn’t know, that such formalities irked the former Ranger.

But Faramir found his gaze being drawn to the elf Aragorn had called Belhadron. He held himself a little differently to Legolas, slightly tense, his eyes continuously scanning their surroundings, and Faramir suspected that he was not entirely at ease in this city. It made sense. From what Aragorn had mentioned to Faramir of Belhadron, it seemed that he had remained in the forests of what had once been called Mirkwood all of his life.

A council member approached Legolas, and Faramir couldn’t help but notice how Belhadron’s hand jumped ever so slightly towards his sword, before he put his hand back down at his side. The cloak he wore, a mixture of greens and greys that Faramir supposed would looked near invisible in a forest, was shifted back to reveal the sword at his waist, and to give his arms freedom of movement.

He looked dangerous, thought Faramir, or at least potentially dangerous. But then as Faramir watched from the side, he saw Legolas murmur something to Belhadron and the dark-haired elf’s face broke in a grin. And then any image of Belhadron looking dangerous simply vanished.

Aragorn excused them from the small crowd of people, and Legolas chuckled softly. His gaze flickered around the courtyard. “You do seem to draw a crowd, Aragorn,” he said quietly, but there was a smile on his face.

Aragorn smiled. “I think it is you and Belhadron,” he said. “Certain stories, I think, have been a little exaggerated. I think some of them are hoping for a sparring match here and now.”

Belhadron chuckled, his gaze flitting around the courtyard. A young child, a girl only about five years old, waved shyly from behind a soldier’s legs, and Belhadron smiled. “We should not disappoint,” he murmured, switching back to Sindarin for ease.

Aragorn laughed. “How is home?” he asked, and neither Legolas nor Belhadron missed the underlying tone of his voice. Legolas inclined his head slightly.

“We are recovering,” he said with a small smile. And if the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and if behind him Belhadron had paused slightly, his gaze becoming distant for the barest of moments, then nobody besides Aragorn noticed, and Aragorn had been expecting it anyway.

The company mounted up for the short ride back up to the citadel. There came a few muffled murmurs from the small crowd around them as Legolas and Belhadron both vaulted onto their horses and people noticed that neither Arod nor Belhadron’s large bay wore any tack at all. Faramir mounted his own horse and rode on Aragorn’s left hand side as the four of them, followed by council members and Aragorn’s guard, made their way up through the city.

“How are you?” asked Legolas softly as they rode. Arod pranced slightly, his shod hooves ringing out on the stone streets, but he quieted quickly with a touch from Legolas to his neck.

Aragorn smiled. “I am well enough,” he said. “The city is being rebuilt, and Osgiliath as well.” The evidence was all around them, men working on buildings that had been damaged or destroyed in the siege, people repairing walls and streets. Slowly the scars were being scraped off or covered up with new white stone. But there were still scorch marks of fires against the sides of buildings, the occasional stone from a catapult that had not yet been removed. It would be a while yet.

Aragorn allowed a soft sigh, quiet enough so that only Legolas, Belhadron and Faramir could hear, to pass his lips. He looked over at Legolas, and a small smile came across his face. “We are here,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to Faramir. “We won. And we will be alright.”

Faramir nodded, a small smile of his own on his lips. Aragorn was right. They had won, and it was over now. It was over.

They continued to talk as the party headed up through the city, exchanging details of homes and places beyond. Legolas had news of Gimli, of Erebor and Dale, whilst Aragorn filled Legolas in on the goings on in the Shire that he had heard from Gandalf and some of the Dunedain back north. Belhadron was for the most part quiet, but occasionally spoke to Legolas in that rich tongue that Faramir guessed was Silvan. And then all too quickly they were on the sixth level and pulling the horses up in front of the stables.

Aragorn dismounted as stable hands came out to take the horses away, and moved around to speak to Legolas, who had dismounted from Arod. Belhadron’s horse shifted almost nervously on the spot, his hooves clattering, and Faramir looked over as he freed his cloak from where is had been caught on the saddle before dismounting.

“There is a tradition that horses are not allowed up to the seventh level of the city,” he said. “It is a little pointless, but tradition is tradition.”

Belhadron nodded, and gracefully swung himself from his horse. A groom approached him, wearing the livery of Minas Tirith, and then stopped short at the surprise of finding a horse with no tack. Slightly surprisingly, he regained himself quickly and bowed low to Belhadron and Faramir.

“Milords,” he said, and Faramir nodded back.

“Celtan,” he said in greetings. “I trust your mother is well?”

“Aye, milord,” said Celtan with a smile. “Ma’s doin’ better.” He bowed low again to Belhadron, and eyed his horse. “Have we a halter or something for your horse, milord?”

Belhadron paused, and Faramir could see him translating what the groom had said in his head. Faramir opened his mouth, as he could at least translate into passable Sindarin, but then reconsidered. There was a hint of deep running pride that he could see glimpses of under Belhadron’s skin, and so he kept his mouth shut.

Belhadron eventually shook his head. “He will follow,” he said, his accent lilting. He turned to the horse and murmured something, and his horse snorted quietly, and then stepped forwards. Celtan looked surprised, but bowed low to them and backed away.

Belhadron’s horse followed him, and the groom looked even more surprised, but he turned and led the horse back to the stables. The horse looked back at Belhadron once, and Faramir smiled to see Belhadron simply nod, and the horse turn back and follow the groom once more.

Belhadron smiled softly, and then turned to where Legolas and Aragorn were standing, talking quietly by the stairs up to the seventh level.

Legolas looked up as Belhadron approached. “He did not threaten to bite the groom?” he asked.

Belhadron chuckled. “He is behaved,” he said, in Westron out of courtesy to those around them, though Faramir could tell he was still uncomfortable using the tongue.

Legolas smiled, and then said something in a flurry of elvish that Faramir couldn’t even begin to understand. He was beginning to wonder if they had any original and translated scripts of Silvan in the archives. He rather doubted it. Belhadron laughed, and replied in the same flowing language, speaking so easily and beautifully that Faramir was almost jealous.

Aragorn rolled his eyes at Legolas and chuckled dryly. “Let us head up to the citadel,” he said. “Belhadron, nothing can rival the view from the edge of the courtyard.”

Belhadron smiled easily at Aragorn. “As impressive your city is, Estel,” he said. “It is still made of stone.”

Faramir raised one eyebrow at that, but Aragorn and Legolas both laughed. “You will become used to it, mellon-nin,” said Legolas. “Besides, there are a few gardens.”

Belhadron shook his head at his friend. “We shall see,” he said to Legolas. Turning back to Aragorn, a smile grew across his face. “Lead the way.”

Faramir followed behind as Aragorn led Legolas and Belhadron up the steps and into the courtyard. He saw as Belhadron briefly stopped upon reaching the top of the steps, and slowly turned around.

“Even for a stone city, it is impressive,” Aragorn said with a dry smile. Belhadron chuckled, but didn’t say anything, turning back towards the citadel. The new tree, its branches a pale white and bearing sweet pale blossoms, stood at the edge of the fountain. It had grown since Legolas had last seen it, when it had just been a sapling. Now it was taller than Aragorn.

And then Faramir’s gaze was drawn to the top of the steps leading into the citadel, and without really knowing, a smile spread across his face as he saw the two women descending the steps. He knew without looking for it that a similar smile was probably on Aragorn’s face as well.

Aragorn reached Arwen and reached out for her hand. “Meleth-nin,” he said with a smile.

Legolas stepped forwards, bowing. “My Lady,” he said with a smile touching his lips. “And my Lady Eowyn.”

“Legolas,” said Arwen warmly, a soft smile on her face. “Welcome back. And welcome, Belhadron, to Minas Tirith. It is good to finally meet you. Estel has told me much.” Belhadron bowed low to her, not completely unable to hide the awe in his eyes at meeting the Evenstar, the Lady Undomniel.

Eowyn smiled. “Welcome, my Lords,” she said, and Faramir felt himself melt slightly at her smile, the shy reserved one that she had for people she didn’t really know. His wife could be deceptive to those who didn’t know her story. The White Lady of Rohan seemed delicate, almost fragile, but Faramir knew from experience she had a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind, not to mention the fact that she was a far better rider than he would ever be.

He held back a smile at the memory.

0-o-0-o-0

Legolas turned and looked out across the Pelennor from where he stood, high up in front of the citadel. Aragorn was right. The view from the courtyard outside the citadel was fantastic. The Anduin glinted in the distance, curving away out of sight towards the south. Osgiliath, slowly rebuilding, was straight to the east. Even the mountains looked less ominous, like normal mountains now, rather than the thin border between them and Mordor.

And then Legolas’ gaze was drawn slowly south, and he repressed a sigh as a now familiar ache made itself known.

South. The Sea. Ever since he had heard those gulls in Pelargir, there had been an ache that had not gone away, a longing for the sea that would not sleep. He did not know if ache was the right word. Ache implied that something had hurt him, and in truth, he was not sure if what he felt was painful. Maybe he had not resisted the longing long enough to feel it as pain, but it felt more like an emptiness, a hollow in his chest that wouldn’t quite fill.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Legolas almost, but not quite, started. He turned around to see Aragorn standing behind him. “We are heading inside,” he said. “I think Belhadron needs a tour of the citadel.” He grinned. “I am going to convince him that a stone city is perfectly fine.”

Legolas chuckled, and if the sound felt a little forced, and he had to keep his eyes from being drawn to the south, then he quickly pushed it out of his mind. “You can try,” he said. “But it was a long journey, mellon-nin, and the roads are still not so safe that we could travel without wariness. I think our rooms will be enough for now. The tour can wait.”

Aragorn nodded in agreement, and Legolas turned to Faramir and Eowyn. He bowed slightly. “I will see you at the dinner tonight,” he said. “It has been good to see both of you again.”

“And you,” said Faramir. He took Eowyn’s arm and the two of them headed inside, in the vague direction of Faramir’s study.

Arwen smiled as she watched them go, and then turned to Aragorn. “I will see you in a minute, meleth-nin,” she said. “It is good to have you back, Legolas.” She turned and followed Faramir and Eowyn inside.

Aragorn sighed slightly as she went, a small smile on his face. Legolas chuckled. “You seem content,” he said.

“I am,” murmured Aragorn. He broke out of his reverie with a shake of his head and smiled softly. “I am content.”

0-o-0-o-0

“How is your home?” Aragorn asked as they walked down the corridors of the citadel, through a multitude of ornate doors towards the living areas.

Legolas gave him a strange look. “You already asked that,” he said. “You cannot be losing your memory already. I know you are old, but you are not that old yet, mellon-nin.”

Aragorn resisted the urge to shove Legolas in the ribs. “Last time I asked the question, we were surrounded by people who might overhear. Now we are alone.”

Belhadron and Legolas exchanged glances, and then Belhadron spoke, slipping into Sindarin for ease of use. “It has been wonderful,” he said sarcastically, a bitter smile on his face. “Brilliant, actually. Apart from the fact that we lost hundreds of elves, of course, and that some parts of the forest have been burnt down by orcs, and that everyone, everywhere, has been left with horrific scars. But other than all of that, it’s great.” He chuckled bitterly.

Legolas half smiled at Belhadron’s scathing tone, but at the same time he sighed, and shook his head slightly. “We have survived, for the most part,” he said. “But after hundreds of years of war, peace is a strange thing to become used to.”

Belhadron spoke up, some of the bitterness gone from his voice. “We had a purpose, Estel. For over a thousand years we knew what we had to do, and now we cannot do that anymore.” He shrugged. “It is going to take some time to adjust to.”

Aragorn nodded. “Aye, I know,” he said. “Well, I know what you mean. I haven’t exactly lived for as long as either of you. But it is over now. We did triumph, in the end.”

“Not many of us realise it,” said Belhadron with half a smile. “There are far too many sharpened swords and fletched arrows lying around Eryn Lasgalen’s halls.” Many of the elves that had been warriors now spent a little too much time tending to weapons, as they were not at war anymore. The quiet could be unnerving.

Aragorn chuckled. “I know what you mean. Luckily half of Gondor’s army have returned to whatever they did before they were needed as soldiers, and the other half are busy helping to repair whatever needs repairing.” He stopped outside a door.

“Your room, Belhadron,” Aragorn said, pushing open the door. “Legolas is next door.” He grimaced. “There is going to be a welcoming feast this evening. I apologise for it in advance.”

“Why?” asked Belhadron. “I know that after attending one of our feasts others do seem lacking, but it cannot be that bad.”

Aragorn laughed, a full laugh that made Legolas smile at hearing the sound. “You will either have people pretending not to stare at you because they have never really seen an elven warrior, or you will have advisors and courtiers and anyone there falling over themselves trying to win your affections.” Aragorn sighed and shook his head with a smile. “I hate the politics of it all.”

“You were the one who invited us,” pointed out Legolas with a grin.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “No, I received word five days ago from a messenger from Cair Andros that you were riding in. The invitation to this city was a general one, Legolas. I didn’t actually invite you for this specific visit.” Belhadron coughed meaningfully and Aragorn chuckled. “Not that I am not glad you are both here,” he said.

“It is good to see you again, Estel,” said Belhadron, pushing open the door to his room. He glanced over Aragorn, and his gaze, to those who did not know him well, seemed unreadable. A soft smile came across his lips. “You have grown, mellon-nin.”

Aragorn chuckled, and Belhadron, with a smile curving his lips, went inside and let the door swing shut.

Aragorn turned back to Legolas as they began to walk back down the corridor. “How are you?” he asked.

Legolas smiled softly, well aware why Aragorn was asking the question now, now when it was just the two of them. As much as he loved Belhadron, as much as the dark-haired elf was a close friend, he hadn’t been there. And Aragorn had. Belhadron knew this as well as Legolas, and knew that there were still some things that Legolas, however much he had told him, was reluctant to talk about.

After all, Belhadron could not tell Legolas everything that had happened in Mirkwood whilst Legolas was away, no matter how hard he tried. Some things were impossible to talk about. You simply had to have been there.

Legolas shrugged. “I am well enough,” he said. “Some days are better than others.”

“What about when the wind blows from the south?”

Legolas’ gaze shot sharply to Aragorn, who attempted to look innocent and failed, his gaze instead switching to the infuriating look he got when he was sure he knew something.

“Tell me,” said Aragorn softly, as they paused outside the door to Legolas’ room. “I know it is bothering you, mellon-nin.”

Legolas sighed. “I am coping, Aragorn. It is not too bad, not yet.” And that was all he felt like saying on the matter. Even speaking of it made the pull grow a little stronger, made the empty feeling a little more apparent.

Aragorn looked at him, and Legolas hated this look probably more than the other one he found infuriating. This look was completely unreadable, a blank gaze that Aragorn had spent many years perfecting. Even his brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, could not tell what he was thinking when he looked like this.

“Honestly, Estel,” said Legolas, and Aragorn’s face softened at the use of his old name by his old friend. “I am well. It is good to be back.” And it was. The city had some painful reminders, but there were also reminders of better things, of friendship and loyalty. Though the painful reminders of all they had lost, the price they had paid, were still there, and could easily dampen the better ones, they did not make what they had found during the war unimportant.

“I have missed having you around, mellon-nin,” said Aragorn. “Gandalf has come and gone, but now he is gone more than often, and I haven’t seen anyone else. I am glad you could come.”

“Believe me, Aragorn, I am glad to have finally come again,” said Legolas. And he was, in a way, glad to have gotten out of Eryn Lasgalen. He loved his home, but now, after the Quest, and the War, everything he had seen? The forest just didn’t seem big enough anymore.

At that moment a page came around the corner, bowing low upon seeing Aragorn and Legolas. “My Lords,” he said. “My King, one of the advisors has requested your presence.”

Aragorn sighed, and turned to Legolas. “And that is as much free time as I get,” he said, but his voice was light and he was smiling. “I will see you this evening.”

Legolas smiled, and clasped Aragorn’s arm. They didn’t say anything else, and didn’t need to. The blond elf pushed the door open, and slipped inside his room.

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't think these are going to happen for me- more things happen! Sorry :)

The hall was filled with light. Cherry logs burnt in the enormous fireplace, their heady scent twisting through the air on tendrils of smoke. The doors at the end of the hall had been flung open, where torches filled the courtyard of the citadel with their red glow.

Aragorn stood up from the table, and slowly the hall fell silent. At the head table sat Aragorn, with Arwen to one side of him, and Legolas and Belhadron to the other side of him. Faramir sat to the right of Arwen, and Eowyn next to him.

Aragorn raised his goblet. "Tonight," he said, his voice ringing clear around the hall. "We welcome back one of those who fought beside you, and we welcome one who fought without our knowing at the time, though the deed was no less valiant."

Aragorn looked down to his left, where Legolas was sitting with a small smile on his face, and continued. "We welcome Lord Legolas Thranduilion and Captain Belhadron Arthonion of Eryn Lasgalen to Minas Tirith. Lord Legolas you all know as part of the Fellowship, and it was with his help that the Quest was completed."

"But it is all too easy to forget that there was fighting elsewhere. It is thanks to Captain Belhadron, the elves of Eryn Lasgalen, the men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor that we are still here in this city. We owe our lives to anyone who was willing to give their own to fight the shadow, including those fighting in the north. We are indebted to Captain Belhadron as much as we owe any captain who fought outside these walls, or on the Morannon. Let us give both of my friends the welcome they deserve."

The hall erupted in clapping, some of the soldiers amongst those at the tables actively cheering. They understood better than of the nobility or council members sitting in the same room what some people had given in this war.

Aragorn waited, and then once the clapping had died down, nodded to the pages waiting at the side of the hall. They came forwards and began to take away the platters of food on the table from their feast. Music from just outside in the courtyard started up, and once Aragorn and the rest of those at the head table had risen, others stood and began to mingle, spreading out into the courtyard.

Aragorn moved to Legolas' side as they headed out and stood on the steps of the citadel. It was dusk, the sky clear and the first few stars beginning to show. Torches along the stone balustrade lit up the citadel with their red, flickering light.

Legolas smiled at Aragorn. "A good feast, mellon-nin."

Aragorn chuckled. "I'm glad you think so." He sighed, looking out over the city. People were moving out around the courtyard, around the White Tree. Some were beginning to dance to the music.

"Does it still feel strange?" asked Aragorn softly.

Legolas glanced over. "Like all of this is going to shatter in an instant? Aye, it still feels strange. And maybe still a little daunting. I think anyone who fought in the war is still struggling to believe it. I know both Belhadron and I are."

"How is he?" asked Aragorn, his gaze drifting to where Belhadron was talking to some of the soldiers who had attended the feast, with Faramir by his side. Aragorn guessed that his Steward was maybe helping to translate a little.

When Aragorn had first met Belhadron, all those years ago in Mirkwood, the captain had spoken little Westron. That had been years ago, back when Aragorn had only been a Ranger and had visited then Mirkwood for the first time. The dark haired elf had been cold at first, but then Aragorn realised it was the norm, and that it was Legolas, with his curiosity and kind heart, that had been the anomaly in being so welcoming. It had taken a while for any of the elves of Mirkwood to warm to him, wary as they were of strangers.

Aragorn did not know Belhadron nearly as well as Legolas did, but he knew enough to see that the slightly cold, mysterious exterior that Belhadron wore was something the elf was doing on purpose, and that beneath it all, he was rather enjoying himself as he watched the councillors fall over each other to introduce themselves.

Legolas sighed slightly, drawing Aragorn back to the question he had asked. "I don't truly know," said Legolas, his voice soft. "I wasn't there. I think part of him is glad to be out from under the trees. Most days remind him of everything we lost, and though we had the victory, it is easy to remember how much we paid for it."

"And you?" asked Aragorn. "Are you glad to be away from Eryn Lasgalen?"

Legolas turned to him, and his face briefly showed a deeper anguish. "I should have been there," he murmured. "So many people died, and whilst they were dying I was running across Rohan or sailing up the Anduin to here. I should have been there."

Aragorn shook his head. "I'm pretty sure we have talked about this before," he said. "Don't feel guilty because you survived when others didn't. I am incredibly, unbelievably grateful that you are still here talking to me, and not buried under the trees of Eryn Lasgalen. If you had not taken that message to Imladris and joined the quest, then maybe we would have failed. You cannot know. But believe me, Legolas, I am so very thankful."

Legolas smiled softly, and his hand briefly grasped Aragorn's shoulder. "Hannon le," he said.

"I was meaning to ask," said Aragorn, catching Faramir's gaze and beckoning him over. "About Ithilien."

"Ithilien?" asked Legolas as Faramir joined them. "That is where you and Eowyn are going to live, is it not?" he asked Faramir.

Faramir nodded. "The house is in the process of being built," he said. "It's in Emyn Armen, only a league or so from Osgiliath. But the forests of Ithilien will need a lot of work, more than I can give."

"And that is what I wanted to ask you," said Aragorn. "I know that we talked about it a little, just after Sauron fell, but then other things eclipsed it from both of our minds. Would you still like to bring a colony of elves from Eryn Lasgalen out to Ithilien?"

"The forests were once beautiful," said Faramir. "But the darkness and shadow from Mordor corrupted them. I have spent a lot of time out there after the war, cleansing the Morgul vale and the forests, but it will take more skilled hands than mine or my men to heal all the hurts inflicted. You and your people could do that."

"Besides," said Aragorn. "I want you closer than Eryn Lasgalen."

Legolas smiled, an easy smile. "I was wondering when it was going to come up," he said. "If the offer still stands, I would love to. And I am sure some people would follow me from Eryn Lasgalen. Some of the warriors, like Belhadron, I think may not want to stay for much longer."

And he knew why. It was one thing to see battle on a distant field. It was an entirely different thing to see it within your home.

"I will have to ask my father," said Legolas. "But he should see the wisdom in it. Much needs healing from the war, and he have to look beyond the borders of the forest now."

"Truthfully, I would be glad to have elven warriors in Ithilien," said Faramir. "There are still a few rogue orcs within the shadows of Ephel Duath, and we have found a new problem. Scavenging bands of Easterlings have begun forays into Ithilien, and they had found orcish weapons. We could use people more accustomed to fighting within trees than our own men."

Legolas nodded. "It could work out well," he murmured. "Maybe Belhadron and I could ride out to the forest at some point? We can see what we could accomplish in Ithilien."

Aragorn smiled. "Aye, that would be a good idea," he said. "Faramir, is Mablung here this evening?"

Faramir shook his head. "He left just after the meal finished," he said. "His wife is pregnant, and he wanted to be home early. But he is in the city."

Aragorn smiled at the news. "Unfortunately, I must be in council for most of the morning and afternoon. Faramir, you have few duties tomorrow. If Mablung and any of your Rangers who are in the city are able, would you accompany Legolas and Belhadron out to Ithilien? Just for the day, so Mablung can get home to his wife, but there is no better time to go."

"Aye," said Faramir. "I can check on the house in Emyn Armen as well, whilst my Rangers take you into Ithilien, is that is fine with you, my Lord Legolas?"

Legolas smiled. "It is just Legolas, my Lord. But if you are willing to do so, I would be glad to see Ithilien again. And I am sure Belhadron will be glad to spend a day out of a city of stone, no matter how good the view is from here."

Aragorn laughed. "Mellon-nin, do I have to remind you that your father's palace was hewn from rock, and that it is underground? You cannot protest about Minas Tirith being too full of stone when you grew up in what is, essentially, a cave."

Legolas glared at Aragorn, and he raised a hand in protest. "A nice cave!" he said. "A beautiful home, mellon-nin, and you know it. But it is still underground, and that is generally the defining quality of a cave."

Faramir laughed, and then Aragorn smiled apologetically. "I fear I might have to rescue my wife," he said, looking out to where Arwen was speaking with a few councillors. Only those who knew her well, mainly Aragorn, could tell how irritated she was getting with them. Aragorn chuckled. "I think they might be in more danger than they realise."

"Go," said Legolas with a laugh. "Before your Lady throws her goblet at them." And indeed, Arwen's long pale fingers were flexing slightly around the stem of her wine glass. Aragorn chuckled and quickly ran down the steps. He appeared at Arwen's side and with a grateful smile Arwen took his hand. They moved away and Aragorn smoothly swung Arwen around as they began to dance.

0-o-0-o-0

Belhadron watched from beside the fountain as Aragorn danced with Arwen, and a small smile came across his face at the sight.

He had been to many feasts and celebrations in Mirkwood, but now they were different. Before the War, Belhadron had known all too well why King Thranduil had thrown so many feasts: as a distraction from the shadows that had loomed over them for so long. Belhadron had never really liked them; always a little apprehensive that something was going to go wrong. It had usually taken Legolas and a stolen flask of wine to get him to loosen up.

But now there was actually nothing to worry about, no apprehension over battles that would be fought the next day. Now Belhadron could look at a crowd and not think of who would be there in a month, and who might be in the healing wards or dead. It was over.

At least, that is what the rational part of his mind knew. The instinctive part of him, the part that had kept him alive for so long was still making his hand twitch towards the knife at the small of his back every so often, when it became too quiet. It was still making him scan every place he walked into for danger, and still, that part of him made him watch Legolas' back carefully, just in case.

After so many years at war, to suddenly be free from it was a strange feeling.

Legolas appeared at his side with a smile and a gentle nudge. "Do you like Minas Tirith?" he asked, slipping almost without knowing into Silvan as he spoke.

Belhadron looked over at him and smiled. "If you ignore the fact that it is stone, then yes, I like the city. It is peaceful, more peaceful than home can be sometimes. It is a different place, after all. Even if half of the councillors here have been trying incredibly hard to gain my attention." Belhadron chuckled. Luckily Faramir had the same opinion of politics as him, and had helped him evade the advisors and lords, and introduced him instead to the many captains and soldiers also around the courtyard.

Legolas laughed. He had exactly the same view of politics as Belhadron. Both of them could think of far more important things to do.

The song that was being played finished, and Aragorn and Arwen stepped away from where couples were dancing. Arwen was laughing at something that Aragorn said as they came over to the two elves.

"Will you dance?" Arwen asked Legolas, holding out one hand. Aragorn laughed, fondly kissing his wife's cheek.

"She will insist," he said to Legolas. "You will have to give in, mellon-nin."

Legolas laughed. "I suppose I must," he said, taking Arwen's hand. With a grin at Aragorn and Belhadron, he led Arwen out and began to dance. Faramir led Eowyn out as well, Eowyn's white skirts swinging around her as Faramir spun her in his arms.

Belhadron watched Legolas as he left, barely glancing over to Aragorn, who came and stood by his side.

"You are still watching out for him, then?" asked Aragorn in Sindarin, his voice soft and pitched so even Legolas, with his elven hearing, would be hard pressed to hear him. Belhadron could only hear Aragorn's voice because he was standing next to the man.

Belhadron nodded. "Someone has to," he murmured. "It has been my job for hundreds of years." He chuckled. "It is rather hard to give up now, even though there is no danger. Though knowing Legolas, he could find danger in the storerooms of Eryn Lasgalen."

Aragorn laughed. "That is true," he said. "But then so could you, mellon-nin."

Belhadron shrugged. "Maybe," he said, but a smile crept across his face and he laughed. Aragorn chuckled, and watched as Legolas danced with Arwen.

"So he is really alright?" asked Aragorn softly. "Coming this far south again?"

Belhadron frowned, and turned to Aragorn in confusion. "What?" he asked.

Aragorn momentarily froze. In his head he cursed. He had assumed Legolas had told Belhadron everything, including the part about the gulls. It was a rather natural assumption to make, as he thought he knew Belhadron and Legolas had known each other far too long to even try to keep secrets from each other. But apparently, this time he had erred.

Luckily, Aragorn had had a lifetime to practice thinking quickly, and as a Ranger had sometimes had to rely on the skill of his tongue. He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. "I don't know half of the things that go on in his head, and you probably know him far better than I do, Belhadron. You have known him for longer, after all. But if seeing the city every day for me dredges up memories, I'd imagine it would do the same for him."

Belhadron shrugged. "I think he is a little relieved to be away from home," he said. "It seems like the forest is no longer big enough for him. Besides," he murmured with a sigh. "Legolas still feels a little guilty over not being in Mirkwood when we were fighting. I told him that if he had not followed you and watched your back, you probably would have gotten yourself killed at least twice, but I am not sure how much he believes that."

Aragorn chuckled. "That is true," he said. "Has Legolas spoken to you of Ithilien?" He daren't say too much, in case Legolas had not told his friend yet another thing.

Belhadron nodded. "He said you briefly spoke of an elven colony in the forests east of the Anduin, to heal the hurts inflicted by Sauron."

"Faramir has offered to take you and Legolas out to Ithilien tomorrow with his Rangers," said Aragorn. "But if Legolas did decide to come down here, would you follow him?"

Belhadron laughed softly. "Estel, why even ask that?" he asked lightly. "Of course I would. Besides," he said, his gaze falling past the torchlight courtyard and out towards the inky expanse of Gondor. "I think my forest's borders are not so big now, after all."

0-o-0-o-0

The sun rose early in Gondor, but even then it did not beat the blond elf who was leant on the balcony, watching the first rays spill over the mountains to the east.

There was a slight rustle behind him, and the elf smiled. "I am sure that I shut the door to my room," he said softly.

Belhadron chuckled, and leant next to Legolas on the balcony. "You know closed doors only encourage me," he said. He glanced over at Legolas. The blond elf's forehead was creased slightly, and Belhadron could not fail to notice how Legolas' eyes were resolutely fixed away from the south.

He had worked it out last night, fairly quickly after Aragorn's question. Belhadron had known Legolas far too long to not notice when something was different, but he had attributed it to the fact that the war had just finished, and all of the changes that came from that. Only last night had he realised what it was some of his friend's actions had been trying to tell him.

Of course, it would have been a lot easier if Legolas had actually told him.

"Are you alright?" asked Belhadron softly. That question was never going to get a straight and honest answer, he knew that, but it was a way to at least try and start a conversation.

Legolas chuckled. "Are you even expecting an honest answer?" he asked lightly. "I am fine, mellon-nin."

"So there is no reason at all why you cannot look south today?"

The question was said lightly, but the moment it left Belhadron's mouth Legolas tensed, turning away from Belhadron. There was a long silence.

"Did Aragorn tell you?" said Legolas finally, his voice quiet.

"By accident," replied Belhadron. Both of their voices were careful, as if they were trying to tread lightly. "But I would have worked it out eventually. I knew something was wrong."

Legolas inclined his head, but didn't say anything. Belhadron, to his surprise, laughed suddenly, the sound breaking through the face of irritation that he had been wearing.

"I'm not angry," he said. "A little…irritated, but then I have known you for hundreds of years, and as such have had plenty of time to get used to such a thing." He shook his head with a smile. "I was close to working it out anyway. Aragorn just confirmed what I was beginning to suspect."

Legolas sighed. "Of course you were," he said wryly, leaning more heavily on the balcony. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but-"

"For the love of the Valar," said Belhadron with a smirk. "I don't mind. I truly don't. You know I have not told you everything of what happened whilst you were making sure Aragorn didn't get himself killed, just as I knew you had not mentioned everything."

Legolas chuckled. "You cannot tell me you where not angry for a little while," he said, glancing up at his friend. "I know you too well for you to lie to me, remember."

"For a few hours," said Belhadron with a shrug. "But I'm not pretending to understand what it is, what it is like, and so I have no right to be angry at you over something I have no hope of properly understanding." He knew perfectly well that he and Legolas were not even the same race, that Legolas was Sindarin whilst he was merely Silvan, and so he knew that he could not even possibly begin to understand something like the sea-longing.

Legolas looked at Belhadron with a face of slight shock. "Since when did anything that made that much sense come from your mouth?" he asked, jumping back slightly as Belhadron half-heartedly swatted at his shoulder.

"I took notes whenever Mithrandir came through and talked sense into your father," Belhadron replied with a smirk. "He seemed to do well with the King, especially with the whole dragons and dwarves problem."

"There was only one dragon," Legolas pointed out. "And it was dead before we even got involved." Belhadron nodded slightly in agreement, leaning back on the balcony and looking out over Minas Tirith.

Legolas straightened from the balcony. "We should go," he said. "Faramir is meeting us soon to ride out to Ithilien." He smiled, a soft smile, and his gaze drifted to the green expanse across the river. "I think you will like it," he murmured.

Belhadron slid down from the balcony. "If there are no spiders, then I am happy," he said with a grin. He glanced over at Legolas with a smile, who smiled back in return, and any residual anger he had felt over what Legolas had not told him left. He could never hold a grudge very long.

When Eryn Lasgalen had been Mirkwood, when they had been fighting for so very long, arguments were more than occasional, but nobody had held grudges. It was rare for any of the warriors to remain angry at each other for very long. It happened, of course. But Belhadron had almost made it a rule to never part from Legolas angry, to never hold a grudge against his oldest friend. They had never known if one of them wouldn't come back one day.

And though the fighting had finished, though the war was over and Mirkwood didn't even exist anymore, still these things lingered. Still the shadow of it all remained.

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elves end up in Ithilien, where of course they cannot stay out of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take full responsibility for any idiotic mistakes when it comes to the bits about tracking in this chapter. I know literally nothing about it, aside from watching Bear Grylls on the TV sometimes (if you don't know who that is, he is a British ex-SAS guy who now does a bunch of tv shows where they drop him and a small camera crew in some horrible wilderness, with very little equipment, and he has to get out of there, and show you how to survive in such places). I am assuming that because elves are a lot older and have better senses, especially eyesight, they must be much better at tracking than men could be.

They rode out early in the morning, the horses clattering down the streets. People peered out of their windows as they rode by, and any soldiers on the street, whether on duty or not, snapped to attention and saluted. Faramir would at least try to smile back at every single one of them, and at the few children who waved shyly at him from the side of the street.

Belhadron pushed his horse onwards slightly, coming up right next to Legolas. They were following Faramir and his captain, Beregond, to whom they had been introduced this morning. Beregond had wasted no time gathering the Rangers and having them on their way, enough provision packed both for their day in Ithilien and for Faramir as he headed out to his house, currently being built in Emyn Armen. Belhadron liked him already.

Belhadron nudged his horse closer to Legolas, a smile coming across his face as Faramir waved back at a group of orphans running down the side of the road. "They love him," he murmured to Legolas. "They love Estel as well, but they love him."

"They do," said Legolas softly. "Aragorn they love because he saved them, because he is the Elessar and their King. But Faramir fought beside them for all his life, and he loves them just as much." The hint of a smile came across his face, but it was tinged with sadness. "People wept when they thought he was going to die in the war. And then people wept when they learnt he was going to live."

Belhadron smiled. He liked Faramir. In him he could see the same fierce protectiveness that he himself had over Legolas, and he was glad to find Estel's second a learned man, rather than simply a soldier.

Belhadron had never had much time to read, to relax and study something that wasn't to do with a way to improve their defensive strategies during a battle, or accounts of spiders and orcs from the south, to plan their next patrols. There was still so much to do back home, still the last remnants of darkness to drive from their woods, and they would never be completely free again. The forests had been under the sway of the shadow for too long for that to ever happen.

Legolas reached out and nudged Belhadron, jolting him back to the present. "You were thinking too much again," he said with a smile. "You need to stop that."

Belhadron chuckled. "My apologies," he said with a smile. "I will just stop thinking, then."

Legolas laughed, and they rode out of the city together, through the great gates and onto the Pelennor.

Instantly all of the horses' ears pricked, their nostrils flaring at the sight of the wide expanse in front of them. Arod actually bounced, his head held high, and Legolas laughed at his fiery stallion.

Ahead of them Faramir turned to look back. "We'll head straight through Osgiliath," he said. "They know to keep the main road clear."

Legolas nodded, and then all of the horses, as if on cue, bunched their muscles and surged forwards together, beginning to canter down the worn path through the grass towards the city of Osgiliath.

On either side of the wide grassy stretch, farmland was beginning to be ploughed, farmers planting crops in the field. The great field was breaking up as they got further away from the city, the scars in the earth being ploughed over and covered.

The field closer to the city had been left, as a memorial of sorts of those who had died defending the walls of Minas Tirith. The ground where the Nazgul had been burnt was still blackened, and nobody would go near it, let alone plough over it.

But slowly the wreckage, the carnage remaining had been cleared, and things were returning to something better than normal.

They reached Osgiliath quickly, their mounts eating up the ground beneath their hooves. The company, Faramir, Beregond, Legolas and Belhadron and the eight or so Rangers, Mablung included, accompanying the elves into Ithilien slowed, their horse's hooves striking stone as they came to the causeway running through Osgiliath.

The city was still mostly ruins, crumbled stone and fallen buildings. Some of them were still scorched from the battles fought within the city, and the smaller side streets were still stained. Yet some of the building were new, and there were soldiers-turned-builders across the ruins. The bridge spanning the Anduin was new and gleaming white. The city was healing.

And again, men saluted Faramir as they rode past, rising from where they were working and putting down their tools, if only for a brief moment, to stand to attention for the man they loved. A smile came across Legolas' face as he watched. Aragorn was in very good hands, with Faramir as his Steward.

The city ended almost abruptly, the buildings petering out into rubble, petering out into overgrown rubble and then finally the forests of Ithilien. Belhadron breathed in deeply.

"The air is sweet," he murmured to Legolas. "I haven't been in a place like this..."

"For far too many years," Legolas finished off. And he was right. Even if parts of Ithilien were scarred and damaged, it was still far more wholesome than either of them ever remembered their own home to be.

Mirkwood, whilst it had still had that name, had been home, and they would never had considered not fighting for it, but both Legolas and Belhadron had never really known a true time of peace within the forest. Always there had been at the very least a lingering shadow, and at the worst times the forest had been so very dark. Neither of them had really been in a wood that had seen anything other than outright war for centuries.

"I will leave you here," said Faramir, reining in his horse. He nodded towards the dirt road heading off to their left. "That road leads to Emyn Armen. Enjoy the forest, mellyn-nin."

Legolas smiled at the Sindarin and nodded farewell as Faramir peeled off the main road. A small cohort of soldiers followed him, headed by Beregond, the Rangers remaining with Legolas and Belhadron. Mablung turned to the two elves.

"We shall head into the forest here," he said. "It is sparse enough to allow the horses to move through easily. I would watch the footing, though. There are far too many rabbits around here, and we have lost horses to them before."

Legolas nodded, and turned to Belhadron. Having seen the slightly blank face of his friend out of the corner of his eye, he translated into Silvan. Belhadron nodded, and said something back in the same tongue.

Mablung shifted slightly in the saddle. He knew a little Sindarin, enough to probably continue a halting conversation, but nowhere near enough to converse with an elf. It had been a useful thing for passing the time when, in the years before the War, they were stuck out in Ithilien with not a lot to do, if things were for once quiet. But the jilted language he could speak would only look ugly next to the flowing ease with which both Legolas and Belhadron spoke.

His men were still a little wary of the two elves, and Mablung got the feeling that it was Belhadron in particular. Legolas they were a little more familiar with, having known at least who he was, and seeing him in the city before. But Belhadron they knew nothing about, and Mablung did have to admit there was something a little more… feral about the dark-haired elf. Feral was definitely the wrong word, but Mablung did get the feeling that Belhadron would be able to go from witty and laughing to a deadly rage in an instant, and he supposed that was a little unnerving, that slight hint of unpredictability.

"Careful," he said to one of the younger Rangers as his horse made a snatch for a deep green bush. "Our horses may be smart, but they can't tell what is poisonous."

"There are many plants of poison in Ithilien?" asked Belhadron, the Westron slightly stilted on his tongue.

"Not many," said Mablung, turning in his saddle. "At least, not many that we have discovered. This plant here is one of the worst. We found out when one of the horses ate from a bush and then died less than an hour later."

Belhadron touched his horse's neck, and it stopped obediently. He reached out and pulled a berry, a light yellow colour, from the bush, and rolled it between his fingers. He looked over at Legolas.

"Is this…?" and then switched into Silvan, as Mablung and the Rangers watched. Belhadron threw the berry to Legolas, who looked at it, and then nodded.

"What is it?" asked Mablung, turning his horse around in curiosity.

"We have this plant in Eryn Lasgalen," said Legolas, flicking the berry into the ground. "It is usually poisonous, but we found that the juice of the berries can slow other poisons, if used sparingly. It has saved lives before."

Mablung looked surprised. "We didn't know that," he said, eyeing the bush again. "Thank you."

Belhadron smiled slightly. "We have to go together if the idea will work," he said. "We will tell you as much as we know."

Legolas broke in. "I would avoid using the plant until your healers can look at it," he said. "We know very small amounts work for elves, but we have no idea how men are affected by it."

Mablung nodded, and slowly the two elves began to talk to the Rangers, some Rangers trying out their rusty Sindarin, whilst Belhadron began to speak to Mablung, modifying his Westron as he listened to the older Ranger.

Legolas, riding behind his friend, smiled as a younger Ranger, called over by Mablung, greeted Belhadron in halting Sindarin. It took the dark-haired elf a few moments, but then a slight smile came across his face, and he replied in Westron.

It would be slow, that was for certain. Despite having an Elven Queen, Legolas suspected that elves were still just tales to many folk. And it would take a while for those ideas to be replaced in people's minds, but as Legolas watched Mablung laugh at something Belhadron said, he was hopeful. Belhadron certainly looked a little happier than even back home. Maybe Ithilien could be a new start for them all.

0-o-0-o-0

It was quiet. They rode through the trees, their horses finding a path through the bushes and grasses that seemed to grow in abundance here in Ithilien. Belhadron liked it. There was a natural feel to it that Eryn Lasgalen, whilst it had been Mirkwood, had lost. Or rather, had had taken from it.

It was too quiet. Legolas noticed it first, and his eyes began darting around the forest, searching out shadows that maybe weren't completely natural. Belhadron, naturally watching Legolas, saw his friend's hesitation and his eyes flicked around the forest. It was too quiet.

"Mablung," said Legolas, his voice lower than normal. "Something's wrong."

Mablung stopped his horse and, without questioning Legolas, listened intently to the forest. Some of the younger Rangers didn't notice anything, but Belhadron could see the understanding dawn in those old enough to realise what the quiet probably meant.

The silence was almost familiar to him, the amount of times he had heard, or rather not heard, the same thing when Eryn Lasgalen had been Mirkwood. And though the trees were strange, and unused to elves, still both Belhadron and Legolas could feel the change in the woods, the disruption emanating from somewhere. Belhadron found his hand going to the hilt of his sword, and underneath him his stallion tensed, sensing the change in mood.

A whistle came from nearby, and Mablung turned to see another Ranger approaching on foot, leading his horse. He was moving quickly, nearly dragging his horse behind him, until he just dropped the reins and jogged the last few paces to Mablung's horse. "There are prints nearby," he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear, but soft enough to hopefully keep their location hidden.

"Where?" asked Mablung softly. "How many?"

"I…I don't know," said the ranger, his face worried. "They're to the left, many feet passing this way not so long ago."

Legolas pushed his horse forwards. "Which way are they going?" he asked softly. Belhadron followed the blond elf, halting his horse just behind and to the right of Legolas.

"Northwest," replied the Ranger.

Mablung's eyes narrowed. "Osgiliath?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp and brittle.

The Ranger's eyes widened. "Aye," he said. "Maybe."

Mablung cursed under his breath and swiftly dismounted from his horse. "This must be the men who have been lurking around the area," he said, as Legolas and Belhadron dismounted and followed him. "They have managed to get their hands on orcish weapons, but we have had no fatalities from their incursions into Ithilien yet."

"Can you track them to their camps?" asked Legolas as they stepped towards where the tracks supposedly were, following the other Ranger.

Mablung shook his head. "We do not have enough men who know Ithilien well enough to do so, and they are smart. We find remains of camps, but they are always moving and, like I said, there are not enough to hunt them down."

They followed the Ranger around a dense thicket, and it was then that they saw the tracks. Mablung cursed, crouching down to look at them.

Legolas crouched down next to him. "There are many," he said softly, his brow drawn in concern.

"Over forty," said Belhadron suddenly. Mablung, who had almost forgotten the dark-haired elf who was so quiet, sometimes just a shadow at Legolas' side, managed to stop himself from starting.

"How can you tell?" he asked softly, his eyes studying the worn earth for some clues. He was a good tracker- maybe not the best Gondor had, but then Damrod had died in the war, and he had been one of the next best, excluding Faramir. And he could not see how Belhadron knew.

Belhadron stepped over the tracks, and Mablung almost said something until he saw how the elf's feet left no imprints on the ground. On the other side, Belhadron crouched down, absent-mindedly tucking a stray strand of dark hair that had escaped his warrior braids away behind a pointed ear.

"Look here," he said softly, switching into Silvan for ease. Legolas quietly translated into Westron for the other men. "The men are disorganized, true, and they do not march remotely in time, but still only so many people can fit abreast on a path this wide. Judging by the size of the prints, and what you have said, there would be about three men abreast at one time. Now look at the overlay of the prints. The men aren't walking in time, so it is not as if their prints will be in the same place. There are traces of the first few footfalls, but the amount that they are covered suggests many have walked over them since." Belhadron's slender hand traced what seemed like nothing to Mablung.

"The leader walked here," he said, his brow furrowed. "He was the first to pass, and he was walking faster than the rest of the men, as if he had somewhere to be." A finger briefly touched the dirt. "Some men had their weapons out. There is dried blood, very small flakes of it, here and there, so someone was wiping their weapons down in readiness. It could of course be from their clothes or wounds, but I would say weapons."

"Why?" asked Mablung, thoroughly lost as to how Belhadron was reading this.

Belhadron smiled slightly. "I cannot be sure, but the flakes look like it contains residue of the poison sometimes used on orc blades. It is darker than normal dried blood."

Mablung almost asked how he knew that, and then thought better of it. These elves had been fighting since before his great-grandfather was born. They had had far more experience than he would ever have.

Belhadron, finished looking at the tracks, rocked back on his heels, and shot a brief smile at Legolas. Legolas chuckled in return. He turned to Mablung.

"One of the best trackers we had in Mirkwood," he said. "Though he would never admit it. Far better than I could ever be."

Belhadron swiftly grinned. "You lacked the patience, mellon-nin."

Legolas nodded. He supposed it was true. For some reason, he could remain absolutely still in a tree, an arrow knocked, but when it came to tracking he could not stay patient enough to read all the signs.

He had been surprised when he had first found out how good at tracking Belhadron was. Legolas knew all too well the anger than sometimes simmered beneath his friend's cheerful façade, and he had been surprised to know that Belhadron could muster the patience to track. Of course, he had then seen his friend track, and realised that the patience was not, in fact, truly patience, but a different form of anger, a rage that burnt slow and cold and, as Legolas knew all too well, could focus your mind like nothing else.

Mablung ran a hand through his hair. "Readying weapons, you said?" he asked. Belhadron nodded, and Mablung gritted his teeth. "We will have to follow this," he said. "We cannot risk an attack on Osgiliath, not with civilians in the city right now. If we can, we will cut them off and take them by surprise. There are only twelve or so of us, but we are the better fighters." He smiled grimly.

"Faramir is in Emyn Armen, is he not?" asked Legolas. At Mablung's nod, he continued. "Send someone to warn him. At the least, he can ready any soldiers in Osgiliath, and he could send some people to us. Even if we are the better fighters, the more soldiers the better."

Mablung nodded, and beckoned for the younger Ranger, the one who had first discovered the tracks, to come over. "Ride for Osgiliath, for where Lord Faramir will be on the eastern edge," he told him. "Tell him what has happened, that we are tracking the men in the direction of Osgiliath. If he has his guard with him, ask him to send them to us, on the most direct line from here to Osgiliath. If they do not meet the men, then they may meet us. Stay clear of these tracks and the men."

The Ranger nodded. "Aye, captain," he said. He turned to grab the reins of his horse. Vaulting on, he tugged on the reins and spun the horse around. The stallion picked up a canter and started to head north, weaving in and out of the trees.

Mablung sighed slightly as he watched the Ranger go. "We must follow the tracks," he said, and reached for his horse. Legolas and Belhadron also mounted, and then without a word, the small party of Rangers rode forwards, towards Osgiliath.

0-o-0-o-0

The tracks wove through the forests of Ithilien, around the dense thickets or denser copses of trees, but still they didn't waver, heading northwest and straight for Osgiliath. In his worry, Mablung pushed them faster, the Rangers now cantering slowly one after the other.

They would have gone faster, but to go too fast would mean that Belhadron could not study the tracks as well as they needed him to. Already he was at the front of the company, Legolas riding next to him. The blond elf had moved his horse as close to Belhadron's stallion as he possibly could, and was currently leaning across, one hand under the quiver strap across Belhadron's chest. The dark haired elf was leant forwards over the side of his horse, only Legolas' hand keeping him on his stallion's back.

"Anything?" asked Legolas softly, and Belhadron straightened a little, Legolas helping to pull him up.

"They started moving faster a few minutes back," he said. "But at this speed I can't be sure how fast." He grimaced, and leant back down again. Legolas' hand moved and gripped his shoulder as Belhadron studied the tracks again.

Legolas didn't even have to think as Belhadron's horse sped up slightly. Arod adjusted and he remained with his hand on his friend's shoulder. They had done this before, the two of them racing through what was then Mirkwood at the head of a company of elves, Belhadron leaning over his horse's shoulder to study orc tracks, and Legolas there keeping him on his horse, watching the forest around them.

Sometimes it had only been the two of them, tracking orcs through the forest in a desperate bid to get to the patrol before them. Sometimes there hadn't even been horses- the two of them running side by side, Belhadron's hand on the hilt of his sword and his head bowed, following the tracks. Legolas' hand would still be on his shoulder though. On a few occasions, when Legolas had not been paying enough attention, Belhadron had run into a tree before.

A thicket came up in front of them and Legolas clicked his tongue, nudging his right heel into Arod's flank. Arod responded and shifted sideways, pushing Belhadron's stallion sideways and around the thicket as well. Mablung came behind them, the rest of the Rangers following.

Suddenly Belhadron straightened up. "They're close," he said. Touching his horse's neck, his stallion slowed and Legolas slowed with him.

"How close are they?" asked Mablung, his voice low. He dismounted as the two elves vaulted gracefully from their horses, and came to look over Belhadron's shoulder.

Belhadron moved forwards a few steps and knelt. His brow was furrowed. "Less than a furlong," he said. "Very close." He straightened up. "We should continue on foot." His shared glance with Legolas did not go amiss, and Mablung noticed it.

"It would be quicker if we continued on horseback," he said. "Unless the tracks are becoming too indistinct to read from your stallion, my Lord."

"Just Belhadron," replied the dark-haired elf slightly impatiently. He slipped into Sindarin again, but thankfully Mablung's Elvish was good enough to understand him. "But we would both prefer to continue on foot. They are close enough, I think, that it will not matter too much, and that Ranger should have reached Faramir by now, so Osgiliath will be warned."

Legolas opened his mouth to speak. "Our patrol was once ambushed when we were riding through the forest. Orcs leapt out and knocked us off our steeds, and then they had the advantage. We should continue on foot." He didn't continue with the rest of the story, but the tone of his voice was enough to let Mablung realise that it had not ended well.

Mablung nodded, and signalled for the rest of the Rangers to dismount. "Quickly," he said softly, pitching his voice so it carried to his men and no further. "We need to move."

Hand were on weapons, swords loosened in sheaths as the men moved swiftly forwards, jogging over the packed dirt. Belhadron was in front again, studying the ground as he ran. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Legolas' bow was in his hand.

Legolas suddenly held up his hand. "Listen," he said. "It's quiet again. Too quiet."

Belhadron glanced ahead. "How near is Osgiliath?" he asked.

"A few leagues," said Mablung.

"As far as I can see, the tracks continue straight," said Legolas.

"I don't know," said Belhadron. "They may tail east slightly…" He trailed off, and took a few steps down the track.

"Go," said Legolas. "Go on ahead and see what you can find. We will follow, make sure we are missing nothing." Belhadron glanced at him, looking sceptical at first, but then nodded, and began to run slowly down the track, his head turning left and right as he read the ground in front of him.

"Let's go," said Mablung. "We're close now." He slid his sword from his sheath, and the men moved onwards, Legolas and Mablung at the front. Legolas' long, ornate bow was held tightly in his hand. The other was curled loosely at his side, and was just waiting to reach for an arrow.

His eyes were on Belhadron up ahead, as the dark-haired elf tracked from side to side, occasionally stopping and crouching, before straightening up and continuing on again. Legolas was only about twenty yards behind him, yet he still didn't like it. He could reach Belhadron in about four seconds if he really wanted to, but that could be a very long time sometimes.

Up ahead, suddenly Belhadron halted. Legolas nearly sprinted to him then and there, but at that moment a sound made its way to him, the crashing of undergrowth, the stamping of feet. It grew louder and louder.

And then the shapes burst from the trees.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence and action in this chapter, and mention, though not graphic description, of injury. As always, comments are very welcome.

aramir ran a hand through his hair, pushing the red-brown strands out of his face. "If we widened the road here, we could run a track up to Cair Andros," he said, tracing the route on a map on the table in front of him. A knife weighed down one end, some random stone weighting down the other. "We could then take supplies upriver much more easily."

Beregond, leaning next to Faramir, shook his head. "It would be easier, if you wanted a road up to Cair Andros, to just build a new road," he said. "To widen the road north out of Eastern Osgiliath would be a huge amount of work. That part of the city is badly damaged, as you know."

"But in widening the road we could repair parts there," pointed out Faramir. "And it means a more direct line to Eryn Lasgalen, and better access to the North. The trade that could come down from Dale and Erebor using this road would be a great help to that part of Osgiliath."

"We cannot get the road that far," said Beregond. "That is thousands of leagues, my Lord, up to Dale and Erebor. I know that the route down to here is difficult from there, but to build a road up through the brown lands, bypassing Emyn Muil, would be far too hard a job."

"We don't have to go all the way," said Faramir with a chuckle. "That would be impossible. But if we start with just a road running nearby the Anduin from here," he said, pointing at the eastern shore of Osgiliath. "Up to Cair Andros, then that would make moving supplies easier, especially if the river is flowing too fast like it does in the winter." He studied the map, his brow creased slightly.

"If we did that," said Beregond. "We could make a path through Emyn Muil. We can easily reach Rohan, the roads only need some repair in places. But a road up through Emyn Muil could open up the north and make trading with Dale and Erebor far easier. They could bring supplies through on the Old Forest Road, down the Anduin, and then upon reaching the Argonath move onto the road."

Faramir chuckled. "I think we are getting a little too far ahead of ourselves," he said with a laugh, clapping Beregond on the shoulder. "Let's just see what we can do about the northern parts of Osgiliath on this side of the river. And if that reconstruction happens to involve a road, then so be it."

Beregond laughed, and tossed the stone from the table, picking up the knife and sheathing it back into his belt. He rolled up the map. "How is the house going?"

"Slow," said Faramir. "The structure is mostly up, but it will not be finished until the end of the year. I think Eowyn is looking forwards to living in Ithilien." His wife was a shieldmaiden of Rohan, used to rolling fields and open skies, and Faramir could tell that being surrounded by stone was beginning to wear her down ever so slightly.

He smiled softly. "Ithilien was once full of light. With Legolas' help, we can make the forests beautiful again. We can rebuild Gondor, Beregond. We can rebuild it all. We just need time."

"Aye, my Lord," said Beregond. He rolled the map in his hand even tighter and tied it up, putting it back on the table. They were on the edge of Osgiliath, where a simple soldier's barrack had been set up for the time being. It was after noon, and a small garrison had just ridden in from Minas Tirith, replacing those who had been staying for the past few days.

The sudden thunder of hooves could suddenly be heard as a horse seemingly appeared from nowhere on the road into the city. Faramir stepped forwards as he recognised one of the Rangers. More specifically, one of the younger Rangers who had written out with Mablung, Legolas and Belhadron this morning.

The horse was lathered in sweat and panted heavily as the Ranger came to a stop. The young man swung himself off of his horse, his dark green cloak flapping behind him. "My Lord," he said breathlessly, bowing.

"What is it?" asked Faramir, coming to stand in front of him.

The man gasped for breath, barely audible words mixed in, and Faramir softened slightly. "Get your breath back," he said, not unkindly. "Have you come bearing news from Mablung?"

The man nodded, and Faramir felt a sudden unease begin to creep over him at the hurried look in the Ranger's eye. Not a panicked look, though, because the man was a soldier of Gondor and, thought Faramir with a strange feeling of pride, it took an awful lot to make any of them panicked. But still, the Ranger was worried, and Faramir got the sense that someone was in danger. "What has happened?" he asked, his voice sharpening.

"There were tracks, my Lord," said the Ranger, having gotten enough breath back to talk. "Of men, the men that we have found scattered throughout Ithilien. They were heading this way."

"An attack on Osgiliath?" asked Beregond incredulously. "Are they suicidal?"

"Maybe," pointed out Faramir. "To them, we took everything from them. They may have nothing left to risk but their lives." He turned to the Ranger. "How many?"

"Over forty, according to Lord Belhadron," said the Ranger. "Mablung couldn't see it in the tracks, though." His voice was slightly accusatory, and Faramir held back a sigh.

"If Belhadron says over forty, then I trust him," he said. "Elves have far better senses than we do, you should know that. They are here to help."

"Forgive me, my Lord," said the Ranger, bowing again. Faramir shook his head.

"There is not time for that now, but you do not need my forgiveness anyway. How far away?"

"Half a league, maybe a little more," said the Ranger. "The Elven Lords and Mablung have decided to track them, but he sent me ahead to warn you, so Osgiliath could be prepared. I saw no sign of them on the way," he added.

Faramir turned to Beregond. "How many soldiers on the eastern bank?" he asked.

Beregond paused. "Over ninety, as well as four captains. Do you want a perimeter established?"

Faramir shook his head. "Make it discreet," he replied. "I don't want to panic anyone if nothing happens, or if Mablung and the company encounter them before they reach the city." He frowned. "But Mablung only has ten men with him, not including Legolas and Belhadron." He turned to Beregond. "Gather twenty men. The more who have been in Ithilien before, the better. If there are any who used to be Rangers, ask them."

Faramir looked back at the younger Ranger. "Can you guide us back to where you left Mablung?" he asked. "Or better yet, to where you think the tracks might be?" The Ranger nodded, and Faramir smiled grimly.

"Beregond, you have ten minutes," he called out. "After that, you must get yourself ready. In fifteen minutes we ride out." Calling another soldier over, he gave the order for twenty horses, plus his and Beregond's, to be readied. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, and the touch almost made him shudder.

An image of flames scorched across his mind, of a pyre, of a city burning and falling. And then just as quickly it was gone, leaving in its wake an empty feeling he had grown accustomed to.

Faramir shoved the images deep down inside of him, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. At least it hadn't been the worst things he had seen so far, in the wake of the War and everything that had happened.

He still sometimes woke screaming his brother's name.

Fifteen minutes passed, and to Beregond's credit, by then twenty soldiers, all long-time veterans and most men Faramir actually knew, were ready, with twenty three horses, including a new one for the Ranger, and twenty three sword hanging at hips. Faramir had his bow slung on his back as well, as did a few other men who had once been Rangers.

"Mount up," came the command from Beregond, and the soldiers mounted. There was no clanking of metal plates, for none of them were wearing armour. They had been fighting for long enough to know how much of a hindrance it was in the forests, and all were wearing the thick leathers and dark clothing that the Rangers opted for.

Faramir glanced behind him at the company, and nodded at the few who met his gaze. In a strange way, it felt good to be back in the clothes of a Ranger, the clothes he had spent so much time in. It was comfortable. And that feeling, whilst slightly welcomed, also horrified him at the same time.

"Move out," said Faramir, his voice pitched just right so that those beyond the barracks would not hear, and wouldn't realise something was amiss. He turned to the young Ranger. "Lead the way."

They headed out, their horse's feet clattering on the road that all too soon turned to dirt, muffling the sound. Passing through two soldiers apparently chatting by the side of the road, Faramir nodded at them and they stood to attention, saluting. He noticed the glint of blades by their sides, and sent an approving look towards Beregond. He had organised the perimeter well.

They turned off the road leading east, straight to where the burnt remains of Minas Morgul stood, and began to ride through the forests. The horses were surefooted and they travelled fast, weaving around dense thickets as they headed southeast into Ithilien.

Faramir spurred his horse forwards slightly so he was riding beside the Ranger. "Where were you when you encountered the tracks?" he asked.

"About a league or so north of those caves in the hillside," replied the Ranger. "The ones that were apparently used as food stores during the War." He sounded uncertain, though. He had not been in Ithilien for the longer expeditions that Faramir himself had been on, and thus knew the forests less.

"Did you pass through a small clearing with a stream running through it, where the stream pools slightly at one end of the clearing?" asked Faramir. "There is a willow growing next to the pool."

The Ranger was visibly relieved. "Aye, we passed through there, heading southeast and leaving the clearing to the left of the pool," he said. "It was only a minute or so until we then found the tracks."

Faramir nodded. "And they were heading straight northwest?" he asked. The Ranger nodded, and Faramir mapped it out in his mind quickly.

"Head further east," he said. "If I am right, we should meet their route at some point, and be able to catch them up." He tugged on the reins and with a swift nudge of his heels, led the company off to the east, finding paths that some of the others hadn't known had existed until Faramir led them down them. Apart from Mablung, and some of the Rangers who had died trying to defend Osgiliath, Faramir knew Ithilien the best out of anyone in Minas Tirith.

Beregond rode up beside him as the forest thinned enough for him to do so. "What will we do when we get there?" he asked.

"Hopefully," replied Faramir. "We will get to Mablung before he reaches the men. If not…" He sighed. "We will make it up when we get there."

"Right," said Beregond, with a nod. "Because that always works so well, my Lord."

Faramir refrained from rolling his eyes. He had become far more used to and familiar with Beregond over the year, to the point where his captain was beginning to become a close friend. He looked over at Beregond. "Just make sure the men have their wits about them. We need to be ready."

"Aye, my Lord," replied Beregond, and slowed his horse to speak to the company behind them.

Faramir's eyes flickered over the supposedly quiet forest as he rode forwards. His horse, having sensed the importance of what was happening, was behaving now, his ears not pinned back like they usually were.

An uneasy feeling welled within Faramir, and he cursed the fact that it felt so familiar. He had not been so naïve to think that the war had been completely finished when the battle was won, but he had at least hoped that he would not feel this sense of dread would not be felt again.

He didn't want to see any more people cut down by orcs. It was meant to be over.

It was meant to be over.

0-o-0-o-0

They had barely a few seconds before the shapes, now seen to be the men who had been haunting Ithilien, were upon them. Obviously they had not been heading straight for Osgiliath, or had noticed their tail and decided to act. The first one fell with Legolas' arrow in his eye, but others took his place. Belhadron had been right. There were over forty men, with only about ten Rangers in their company. They were heavily outnumbered.

Legolas considered pulling out his knives briefly, but discarded the thought just as quickly. The smooth wood of his bow felt comfortable in his hands, and he reached back for another arrow, his hands slotting it into the string of his bow without him even thinking of it. It had been a very long time since he had had to think about an action as simple as that.

Around him the Rangers were fighting, their swords glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Legolas caught sight of Mablung, battling off three men at once. Clouds of dust were rising around his feet as he spun, parrying another thrust and spinning to slice the edge of his sword across another man's arm, causing him to howl in pain and drop his sword.

Legolas' hand went to his back and in an instant his bow was in his hand. He nocked an arrow and fired. One of the men around Mablung dropped to the floor.

Mablung looked up, surprised, and then saw Legolas. He nodded briefly in thanks before turning and deflecting a blade coming towards him.

Legolas turned away and fired again, the familiar sing of his bow reaching his ears. He fell back into a familiar pattern, sighting and firing over and over again.

Suddenly there came the zip of an arrow as it passed his face, and he instinctively shot to the side, only to see the arrow embed itself in the chest of one of the men in front of him. Instantly he recognised the fletching, and turned to see Belhadron lowering his bow.

A swift grin came over Legolas' face for a brief moment, and he moved so he was closer to the dark-haired elf. Belhadron, stowing his bow, pulled out the elegant sword he always had at his side and cut his way through the group of men that had surrounded him, until he was at Legolas' side.

Legolas couldn't remember how many times they had done this, stood side to side or back to back against their foes. They knew each other so well by this point that Belhadron knew instantly to move to the side slightly so Legolas could get the full draw on his bow when he fired, and Legolas knew when he needed to stay still so Belhadron, pushing back against a parry, could use Legolas as an anchor.

Legolas fired again, dropping one of the men looming over a Ranger who had been tripped and fallen. The Ranger, seemingly unhurt, scrambled to his feet and nodded his thanks.

There came a roar from nearby and Legolas turned to see a giant of a man charging towards him, sword raised. He was an Easterling, his long unkempt black hair swinging around his face, and his clothes worn and stained with dried blood and mud.

In an instant, Legolas had his knives out, and raised them to parry, stepping away from Belhadron as he duelled with a particularly fast man.

Their fight was furious, the man's teeth bared in a snarl as he swung his sword. The force behind his first blow was enough to deflect Legolas' knives and the elf had to duck, spinning around and slashing deep into the gut of the other man who had been trying to come up behind him.

But that had cost him time, and as he came back up the man brought his sword down. Legolas raised his knives and managed to block the blow, the sword crashing into his crossed knives, but the force of the blow kept him on his knees, and he knew he was vulnerable.

Legolas heard a shout from behind him, a familiar voice tinged with irritation that would have made his eyes roll if he had not been exerting all his effort into keeping the sword above him away from his face.

Something suddenly flew over Legolas' head. It glinted in the afternoon light and then the pressure from the man's sword above him vanished as he stumbled back with a roar. A knife was embedded in his shoulder, and Legolas instantly recognised the carved ash wood handle as Belhadron's favourite knife.

Using the opening, Legolas jumped up, his knives raised as the man swung his sword with an angry roar. Even injured, the force behind the swing was enough to knock Legolas back, and the tip of the man's sword cut across his face.

Legolas could feel the slow trickle of blood running down his cheek, and his eyes narrowed. His knives flashed out, deflecting the next thrust and he pushed forwards, the pair of hunting knives in his hands almost more an extension of his arms. The light glinted off them as he struck, again and again, taking full advantage of the knife still lodged into the man's shoulder.

The man snarled at him again, shouting something unintelligible, and Legolas almost smiled, were he not so focused on the fight. His left hand twisted one knife and it flashed out to one side of the man. In his anger, the Easterling swung to face it, and thus did not see the second knife. Legolas twisted his wrist and the knife scored a gash along the man's side, deep enough to be painful and put the man on the floor, but not enough so he would bleed out. The man swatted at him, but Legolas just leant to one side and punched the man squarely in the face. He fell over backwards, the blood spilling out of his side and staining the ground.

But the fight was not going so well. A few of the Rangers were on the floor, their blood mingling with that of the men they were fighting. As Legolas watched, another Ranger fell, and the man loomed over him, ready to bring his sword down in a killing strike.

Without a second thought, Legolas threw one of his knives overhead at the man. He had never really used these knives for throwing, but still, he had been fighting with them for hundreds of years. His aim was true and the man dropped dead with one of his knives in his chest.

But now with only one knife, and no quick way of retrieving it, Legolas was at a disadvantage. Sheathing his remaining knife, he pulled out his bow again, the wood familiar in his hand. His hand went back to his quiver, selecting one of the few arrows he had left. He would be out soon, and then he would be in definite trouble.

A quick glance showed Belhadron still duelling with some man carrying an orc's blade, but he was easily holding his own. Legolas tried to move to the fringes of the battle, firing off arrows with deadly accuracy. He had only five left now; he needed to make them count.

His shots were not kill shots: he had done that enough in the long years of war in Mirkwood. But his aim was good enough to incapacitate the men, prevent them from fighting without actually killing them.

Unfortunately, Legolas knew too well how archers could sometimes attract unwanted attention. Besides, he was also an elf, which made him stand out even more. All too soon had to fall back to his one knife as three men charged at him. With only one knife, Legolas was hard pressed to keep them back, and he danced between them, striking shallow blows where he could.

Two more men joined them, and Legolas blocked blow after blow as best as he could. Even an elf couldn't fight against five men at the same time. He had been in situations like this before, when vastly outnumbered, but that was with elves around him, people who he knew exactly how they were going to move, how they would work together. He was rarely alone like this.

Something cut into the back of his calf and he stifled a cry, his left leg giving out from underneath him. He fell to one knee. He could feel the blood seeping quickly into his leggings, staining them a dark red. A sharp pain washed up his leg, but he knew instantly it was not anything threatening, and would only need a few stitches to heal. But it was inconvenient.

None of the men had delivered another blow yet. It seemed like they were enjoying this. Legolas gritted his teeth and his hand tightened around the white blade of his knife. They were making one massive mistake.

Knife in hand, he surged upwards. He caught one man on the chin with his fist and sent him reeling backwards. The knife flashed and the man fell down. Legolas spun on one foot, not trusting his other leg to bear his full weight, and another man fell.

But it was not quite enough. Even the best fighters, if heavily outnumbered, can be brought down. An Easterling charged once again at Legolas, and the blond elf briefly resisted the urge to roll his eyes, before wondering if Belhadron's attitude was rubbing off on him. Legolas turned, adjusted the grip on his remaining knife, and raised the blade once again. The sunlight glinted off the steel.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence and injuries in this chapter, but nothing graphic or what I would consider triggering. As an aside note, Belhadron's knife is more of a dagger, and is similar to a parrying dagger, or main gauche, as he fights with a sword.

The Rangers were being overwhelmed by the sheer number of Easterlings, though they were the better fighters. Legolas could tell, somehow, that nobody was dead, but a few Rangers were on the floor, and still there were many Easterlings standing.

The loss of blood from his leg was making him a little dizzy now, and Legolas twisted, flicking his wrist out and trying to end his current fight quickly, but the man blocked his blade. Legolas stumbled slightly, taking a few moments to regain his balance.

His head was starting to ring, and he could have sworn he heard the sound of pounding hooves, but that was ridiculous.

The man struck, but this time left his right side wide open, and Legolas took the opening. He flicked his wrist and slashed his knife down the man's right side, before bringing his arm up and smashing it into the man's face. He fell back, dazed, and Legolas used the flat of his blade to knock the man's legs out from underneath him.

The pounding of hooves became louder, so loud that Legolas was nearly sure that it wasn't due to the blood loss. Or maybe it was feet now. He couldn't be sure. Another man came at him and Legolas ducked the swing of the sword, his leg throbbing with protest. The man swung again and the elf threw himself sideways, rolling out of the way as the sword bit into the dust. The sword came down again, and Legolas raised his knife to block it even though he knew the slim blade couldn't withstand the sword.

And then suddenly the man jerked, his chest pushing forwards. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a thin trickle of blood. He toppled to the side.

Faramir stood behind the man, his sword dripping blood. Without a word, he extended a hand. Legolas grabbed hold of it and pulled himself up. "You have no idea," Legolas said with a swift grin. "How glad I am to see you."

Faramir smiled grimly. Around them his men were rushing into the battle on foot, the horses having been left behind when they first heard the clash of swords and sounds of fighting. The tide began to turn in the battle, Mablung's company buoyed up by the arrival of their fellow soldiers. Legolas' hand instinctively went back to his quiver, before remembering he had used the last of his arrows to bring down two men threatening Belhadron. Faramir slung his own quiver off his back and handed it over.

"Take these," he said. "Quickly."

Legolas only paused for a brief moment before grabbing the arrows and putting them in his own quiver. "My thanks," he said. Without another second wasted, he selected an arrow and nocked it to his bow. Sighting, he fired, dispatching another man threatening Beregond.

The fight continued, Legolas nearly dancing as he moved in between the men, shooting or using his knives whenever he got too close. Somewhere along the way he had picked up his other hunting knife, pulling it out of a man's chest.

The throbbing pain in his leg was forgotten as he fought, his focus narrowed to the threats around him and nothing else. Faramir was fighting nearby, skilfully disarming one of the men and throwing him to the ground. Across the clearing, Beregond was duelling another giant of a man. He soon had him tripped up, and a few moments later the man's blood was spilling out onto the dirt floor.

The battle was over all too soon. All of the men that had ambushed them were dead or being tied up with some rope a few of Faramir's men had brought. Legolas wiped his knives off on his cloak and sheathed them, finding his way to Faramir.

Faramir was across the track. He wiped the blood off his sword, sheathing it and slinging his bow back onto his back. He looked around.

Most of the men, both of Mablung's company and of the company that had accompanied Faramir, were up and walking. A few were limping or clutching wounds, but mostly people looked alright.

Faramir watched as Beregond crouched down beside one young Ranger curled on the floor, a gentle hand reaching out and touching his shoulder carefully. A few moments later with no response from the soldier, Beregond carefully rolled him over, catching his torso as the young man flopped over.

There was no visible sign of blood, and Beregond's face showed, rather than despair, relief as he searched for a pulse. Even as his fingers were pressed under the man's jaw, the young Ranger groaned and started to stir.

Faramir watched as Beregond gently shook his shoulder, murmuring softly as the young man came round. He sighed in relief.

He looked around for Mablung, spotted him clambering to his feet nearby and headed over. Upon seeing him, Mablung grinned wryly. "I am very glad to see you, my Lord," he said.

Faramir chuckled slightly, and held out a hand. Mablung pulled himself up. "I am only sorry we didn't get here sooner," said Faramir. "It took us a little while to find you."

"Is anyone seriously hurt?" asked Mablung, dusting off his leather jerkin and sheathing his sword. "I think we have every man that attacked. A few tried to run, but I think they didn't get very far." He gestured with a wry smile at the small trickle of blood down his cheek. "One hit me around the head as he tried to get away."

"We brought down most of those who tried to run, but don't worry about it now," said Faramir. "Let's just get everyone together and then head back." He turned to see Legolas walking towards him, his step unsteady. As Faramir saw him he stumbled, one leg nearly buckling beneath him.

Faramir ran over. "My Lord?" he asked, holding out a steadying hand. Legolas rolled his eyes slightly, and Faramir chuckled. "Legolas?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

Legolas grimaced as he stood. "I'm fine," he said. Faramir looked pointedly at the cut across his cheek, and then at the blood covering his lower leg and Legolas chuckled, wincing when it pulled on the cut. "Someone got in a lucky blow," he said. "But it can wait. Is anyone too badly hurt?"

"I don't know yet," said Faramir, glancing around. "But it doesn't seem like it." He nodded at Mablung, who turned and began to pull a few men towards him, giving out a few orders and then heading off as they all parted in different directions, beginning the task of cleaning up.

Legolas nodded. "Good," he said. Looking over at one of the men, lying dead. He suddenly turned and, limping slightly, moved over to the body. Crouching down, Faramir watched as he swiftly pulled a small knife from the man's shoulder. Wiping it on his already bloody leggings, Legolas straightened and looked around the clearing.

"Belhadron's knife," he said, absent-mindedly flipping it in his hand. He suddenly started. "Where is he?"

0-o-0-o-0

He knew Legolas had left his side, but now had no idea where the foolish blond elf had gone. Belhadron gritted his teeth in annoyance as he managed a quick glance around the clearing before turning back to the man in front of him.

He was another giant of a man, swinging an orcish blade that already had Belhadron on edge. It was bad enough that he had spent hundreds of years defending orcs wielding these blades. Now he had to defend himself from men stupid enough to pick up the blades once the orcs were gone.

His sword swung in his hand as he parried a blow and pushed the blade away. Unlike Legolas, he had never really liked fighting with two knives. He knew how to, of course. He had been trained to fight with pretty much whatever weapon he could get his hands on. He had just always preferred the longer reach of a sword.

There came a shout from behind him, and Belhadron ducked the stroke of the man in front, kicking out at his legs and making him fall backwards as he turned to face this new threat. Another man was running at him, and Belhadron's hand went to his belt before he remembered that he had thrown his favourite throwing knife at that man threatening Legolas.

He nearly sighed with annoyance, if he wasn't in the middle of a fight with a large man bearing down on him. He liked that knife. Legolas better remember which man it hit, because he had not been paying enough attention, and he wanted it back.

Belhadron adjusted his grip on his blade slightly. He didn't like this. There were too many men, and he didn't know these forests, so there was no way he could outsmart any of them, leading them on strange paths through the forest that ended with them lying dead.

But wishing he knew the forests would do absolutely nothing, so Belhadron merely raised his sword and blocked the man's first blow, ducking down and sliding behind him. To the man's credit he was fast, able to turn around quickly enough to parry Belhadron's stroke.

Belhadron nearly rolled his eyes as the man grinned. Belhadron was down on one knee below him, and apparently the man believed that meant he had the advantage. He was so wrong.

The man struck down with his sword, and Belhadron used his own to twist the blade way, rising up from one knee. The man grunted and fell backwards, swinging the blade in front of him. Belhadron merely leant back as the blade swung by his chest, and his lip curled in disgust as he saw the old dried blood on the edge.

He parried the next blow, and then decided he had had enough. Stepping forwards, the man's next blow went wide and Belhadron, with a flick of his wrist, sent the man reeling back with a gash across his stomach. The gash wasn't deep enough to cause any lasting damage, as Belhadron had judged it to be so, but was still painful.

The man stumbled forwards, one hand moving to press in on his stomach. Belhadron quickly kicked out, his boot connecting with the man's head. He crumpled to the floor.

Belhadron had only a moment to look around before he heard the scuff of boots directly behind him and his elven ears picked up the whoosh of a blade passing through the air. At the last moment he threw himself sideways.

He wasn't quite fast enough. There were too many men around him, too many for him to be able to keep track of all at the same time. Even though he had been in such a situation in Mirkwood many times, it had been Mirkwood, where he had known every bush in the forest. Besides, those situations had never ended very well, either.

The blade cut into his arm, which he had thrown up to protect his head. It bit into the flesh of his forearm before Belhadron yanked his arm away with a hiss of pain. The man raised his sword again, a curved scimitar that looked orcish, but before he could do anything else Belhadron shot up, his sword now in his other hand. The man fell to the floor.

His arm was throbbing, but Belhadron paid it no heed as he parried another blow from yet another man. Apparently being an elf drew a lot of attention to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Legolas fighting about five men at the same time. But he could not do anything to help, and had to turn his concentration back to the men around him.

He definitely didn't like this. When fighting even large numbers in Mirkwood, when it had been called that, he had always been with elves. He knew how they fought, and years upon years of training had taught all of them how to work with each other in a fight. Now, he was pretty much alone in this fight. The Rangers were good fighters, of course, but they were not the same as the elves Belhadron had spent hundreds of years fighting alongside.

Belhadron ducked one blow, and one of the other men swung his blade. As Belhadron came back up, twisting to one side, the flat of the blade connected with the side of his head.

There was an odd ringing sound in his ears as he fell sideways, catching himself at the last minute so he didn't fall face-first onto the floor. Belhadron's instincts were screaming at him to move, that he was in danger, and he rolled sideways, keeping his eyes open despite his head also screaming at him. He could feel warm blood trickling down the side of his face.

His hand was still gripping the handle of his sword as he came up and slashed out; putting all the force he had behind the blow. One of the men fell down from the cut of his blade.

Belhadron blocked another blow, and felt that cold anger and focus that he was all too familiar with settle over him. He danced amongst the men, unheeding of the others around him, until a sound that he could not ignore cut into his concentration.

Not cut, as such. You could not survive in a battle without some attention to what was going on around you, and details like this, the pounding of feet, loud to his elven ears, could be important. Belhadron turned just enough to see another twenty or so men run into the fight. He recognised Faramir at the head.

The men around him cursed, and then one tried to take advantage of Belhadron's momentary distraction to knock him down. That was a mistake. Belhadron spun around and rammed his elbow into the man's face, before sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He didn't really want to kill them, if he had the choice. There had been enough of that already.

There was only one man in front of him now, the others having been drawn off and taken on by the Rangers running into the fray. The man's eyes darted around, and then finally settled on Belhadron.

Belhadron grinned.

The man seemed to suddenly realise he was standing in front of an elf, on his own. After a second he turned and ran, crashing through the trees.

Belhadron was set to follow him when another man crashed into his path, apparently now running from one of the Rangers. The tide of the battle had turned. Belhadron used the flat of his blade to trip the man up and then was off into the surrounding forests.

The man's trail, the one who had run, was easy to follow and soon Belhadron took to the trees, swiftly catching up. From above he could see the man charging through the forests, trying to force the low-hanging branches out of the way as he ran. A few of them snapped back in his face, and Belhadron held back a laugh at the man's muffled curses.

After a few minutes of following him, the man staggered to a stop, his breathing harsh and erratic. He collapsed back against the trunk of a tree, one hand going to his shoulder. Belhadron could see the dark red beginning to drip through the man's fingers.

Belhadron shifted in the trees, and his hand went back to his quiver. He had two arrows left, two he had not realised that he still had in his quiver. Without making a sound he drew one out and nocked it to his bow.

Belhadron dropped from the branches of the tree, the arrow aimed unflinchingly at the man this entire time. The man jumped about two feet in the air as Belhadron dropped, his eyes wide enough so that his eyebrows disappeared under the thick mass of tangled hair on top of his head.

Belhadron let his face remain completely stone cold, and moved closer to the man, the point of his arrow aimed at his throat. The man gulped, and tried to back up before realising there was a tree behind him.

To Belhadron's mild surprise, given there was an arrow pointed at his throat, the man snarled at him.

"You'll kill me anyways, you filthy elf!" he half shouted in defiance at Belhadron, who supposed this man had not gotten here without being rather defiant, given that Aragorn had granted the Easterlings pardon, if they laid down their weapons and returned to their own lands.

Belhadron took a moment to tease out the words from the guttural accent of the man, and then allowed a small smile to play across his lips. "I won't," he said softly. "Now move." He tilted his head; indicating the hastily made path the man had already made, back to the other Rangers and Legolas. "Drop your sword and move."

The man hesitated, and Belhadron narrowed his eyes, drawing back the string of his bow a little more. "Your hand?" he asked. "Or your ear. Or you move."

Finally the man seemed to give in, dropping the blade he had clutched in his hand on the floor and turning to walk back down the path. Belhadron followed him, close enough to be within reach of him if needed, but far enough away so that the man could not spin around and grab his bow, if that was even possible.

After a few minutes, Belhadron pushing the man to walk faster and faster, they came within earshot of everyone else, Belhadron able to hear the sounds of the Rangers cleaning up. The man shifted path as they pushed through the last of the bushes to the slight clearing where everyone else was, and Belhadron adjusted his aim. His arm throbbed, the gash making itself known yet again, but he merely grimaced slightly and kept the arrow sighted on the man's back.

"Move," he said again, and the man stumbled forwards through Ithilien.


	6. Chapter 6

They came into the slight clearing, and instantly Belhadron's eyes searched out Legolas, who was standing a little way away with Faramir. He was bloody, and Belhadron's eyes quickly found the red stain on one leg, but other than that he looked alright.

At the light sound of elven feet reaching his ears Legolas turned, and some of the worry dropped off his shoulders as he saw Belhadron walking towards him. There was blood on one side of Belhadron's face, and the same blood staining one arm, but it could not have been too bad because he had an arrow on his bow and pointed, unwavering, at the man walking in front of him.

Belhadron gently nudged the man in the back and directed him over to where the others, who had survived, were being tied up by some of the Rangers. They walked past some of the dead men on the floor, though Belhadron was thankful to see that none of them were from Gondor.

Suddenly the man froze, halting in mid stride. Belhadron took a step forwards, drawing back the string of his bow slightly, when the man howled in rage and spun around to face him. A knife was in his hand, having been hidden somewhere.

"That was my brother, you scum!" he screamed, his face contorted in rage. He charged forwards, brandishing the knife. Belhadron, at the last moment, ducked and spun around, his bow still nocked. He sighted and fired.

There came another howl from the man, this time full of pain. The knife fell from useless fingers as he clutched his hand, and Belhadron, nocking his last arrow, moved forwards and kicked the knife away.

The man looked up at him, still clutching the hand, where an arrow passed straight through the palm. Belhadron motioned with his bow, and the man climbed shakily to his feet, bravely breaking the arrow in half and pulling it from his hand with a muffled scream.

Belhadron glanced over at Legolas who, seeing what had happened, had run over to them. Faramir stood behind the blond elf. "Tell him," said Belhadron, and spat a long string of Silvan at Legolas. He really wasn't in the mood to try and translate into Westron.

Legolas listened, and then turned to the man. "He says the only reason he didn't shoot you instantly through the throat is because he is quite fed up of killing people now, after the hundreds of years he has spent doing so, and that if he wanted you dead, you wouldn't have even known." Though the words were Belhadron's, Legolas was not exactly calm towards the man. After all, he had just tried to kill his friend.

Faramir signalled over one of his men. "Tie him up," he said. "Set him with the others." The Ranger nodded, running over with a coil of thin rope.

Belhadron watched as they tied the man's hands behind his back. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man. "You picked this fight," he spat. "Did you not think people will die?"

The man glared back and Belhadron turned away, a calm rage over him. "You know nothing of war," he said, his voice cold.

"Easy," murmured Legolas, gripping one of Belhadron's shoulders. He kept up a murmured stream of Elvish, switching randomly between Sindarin and Silvan. Faramir watched as the tension slowly left Belhadron's shoulders and he laughed at something Legolas said.

"You were too slow," Belhadron said, switching back to Westron as he spoke to Legolas, his eyes catching Faramir's gaze. Legolas smiled.

"So were you," he said, reaching out and gently touching the cut on Belhadron's temple, from where the flat of the blade hit him. Belhadron stood still, and rolled his eyes as Legolas quickly looked the wound over.

"It's not too deep," he said. He glanced down at the blood on his fingertips, and almost without thinking wiped it off on the edge of his cloak. It was only then that he paused, feeling a slight revulsion at the casual way he had felt with his friend's blood on his hands. After so many years he had become used to it, he supposed, but it wasn't meant to be like that anymore.

It was meant to be over.

Belhadron rolled his eyes, gently nudging Legolas with his shoulder. "I could have told you that, without you poking my head," he said with an easy smile. He knew exactly what Legolas was thinking, seeing as it was also running through his mind. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, when something like this became so normal to them they no longer thought much of it.

Legolas smiled, a brief thank you, before looking over his shoulder at Faramir. "How many do we have?" he asked.

"Forty three," replied Faramir, coming over to them. "But these aren't the only men around Ithilien, we think. Seventeen are dead. Twelve are badly injured, the rest only with minor. None of ours are too badly hurt, though there are some that should get back to Minas Tirith sooner rather than later."

Belhadron glanced over at Legolas, and switched into Silvan. "That includes you," he said, looking pointedly at the blond elf's leg. "I am guessing that wound is deeper than it looks. And I know how you get after a few hours when you have lost too much blood. Aragorn can put up with that once we are in Minas Tirith, not me."

Legolas chuckled. "I will not argue with you," he said, still in Silvan. His speech was becoming ever so slightly slurred, only Belhadron able to notice it, but it was there nonetheless.

Belhadron turned to Faramir, who was speaking with Mablung and Beregond. Their eyes kept darting to the twenty six prisoners they had tied up, a few men moving amongst them, tending to the injuries. Some of the least injured prisoners were already digging graves, under the supervision of armed Rangers. Belhadron had no idea where the small shovels had come from, but apparently someone had had them.

He caught Faramir's gaze. "How soon can some of us journey back to Minas Tirith?" he asked swiftly. "We should return the injured to the city."

Faramir looked at him blankly, and then Belhadron suddenly realised he had asked the entire question in Silvan. His mind blanked, and for the life of him he could not remember the words in Westron.

Legolas, as a Prince, had been taught the language at a young age. Belhadron had not. All he knew he had picked up from Dale, mainly during and after the whole thing with the dragon. When Estel had showed up in Mirkwood some time ago, he had made a little more of an effort, and over the past year had been trying to learn some, but things always got in the way. He still had to translate everything in his head.

Belhadron cursed under his breath, pulling words from his head and trying to fit them together. He suspected the head injury was not helping anything.

"When…will we go to Minas Tirith?" he asked, his accent heavier than it was before.

Faramir, to his credit, didn't react other than to shrug. "We will treat the wounds as best as we can here, and then head back," he said. Luckily, Belhadron was better at understanding Westron than speaking it. A Ranger called out to him, and he turned away, heading across to them.

Belhadron turned to Legolas. "Sit down," he said, switching back to Silvan. "Because if you don't, you are going to fall over soon." He was right, he knew that. He could see the small signs in Legolas that he was close to exhaustion, the blood loss beginning to get to him.

Legolas shook his head. "I am fine," he said, looking around him at the aftermath of the battle. A few Rangers were on the floor, others around them, and Legolas could hear the rip of fabric as cloaks were torn up and pressed into use as bandages.

"You will forgive me if I don't believe you," said Belhadron. The dark-haired elf pushed on Legolas' shoulders, attempting to get him to sit. "It is hard to take your word for it when I can see the blood staining your leg."

Legolas smiled wryly. "Not my best attempt at fooling you," he murmured, and he finally gave in to Belhadron, allowing himself to sink to the floor and prop his injured leg out in front of him. Belhadron began to carefully explore the wound, his fingers gently pulling the gash apart to see how deep it went.

Legolas hissed, and Belhadron pulled a face at hearing the sound, but said nothing. He glanced up briefly, looking around the clearing at where some Rangers were crouched down beside others, beginning to clean and bandage wounds. He caught Faramir's eye, and the man moved away from speaking to another Ranger to come over to them.

"I am fine," said Legolas with a small smile as Faramir approached.

Belhadron snorted, switching into Westron. "You would be more good…"

"Better," prompted Legolas.

"Better, if you sat down before," said Belhadron, with a smile at Faramir and a fake glare at Legolas.

"If I had sat down before," said Legolas with a smile. Belhadron huffed exasperatedly under his breath, and muttered a string of Silvan at Legolas.

Legolas merely grinned, and Faramir smiled back from where he was crouched down beside Legolas and Belhadron. "I see what Lord Aragorn has said is true," he said with a small smile. "You do not take much notice of injuries, do you?"

Belhadron laughed out loud, throwing his head back, his dark hair falling back from his face. Legolas had the good grace to duck his head and look a little embarrassed.

"You speak truth," said Belhadron, still chuckling to himself. "He does not pay attention to his…" He cast around in his head for the right word. "Wounds."

Faramir briefly glanced at the gash in Legolas' leg, and glanced up at the two elves. "Eowyn is learning the healing arts, and I have picked up a little, I guess." He smiled fondly at the memories of Eowyn making him sit there as she practiced bandaging properly on him. "It will need stitches, and it's going to be painful, but it's not actually too bad."

Legolas glanced pointedly at Belhadron, and then looked over at Faramir. "No fatalities," he said, a statement rather than a question.

Faramir shook his head. "A few bad injuries, but nothing incapacitating. We should get those injured back to Minas Tirith as soon as we can, though, Luckily we still have all the horses." Looking back on it now, he had known as soon as the fighting had stopped whether or not anybody had been killed. Having spent so long fighting with the soldiers of Gondor, he could now easily sense the strange heaviness that settled in the air when someone's life had been lost. It was almost infectious, spreading through everyone, even if they fortunately didn't realise what it was.

Faramir had been fighting for a little too long now, had been in charge of men for too long now, to be naïve enough to ignore that feeling.

Belhadron looked up. "My horse did not run?" he asked, sounding mildly surprised as he began to bandage up Legolas' leg with a spare bit of cloth he had found from somewhere. "He will do it sometimes."

Faramir chuckled, and shook his head. "Hasn't left Arod's side," he said. "He seems impatient, though."

Legolas shook his head with a chuckle. "Of course he is. I named him Ascar when he was a foal. It means impetuous." The stallion had attempted to jump out of a small paddock they had put him in when he was a colt, knocking over the fence in the process and causing general mayhem before they had managed to catch him. Legolas had promptly suggested Belhadron take him on.

Belhadron smiled, and merely continued to wrap the bandage tightly around Legolas' leg. "There," he said, tying it off. "Done."

Legolas stretched out his leg with a small grimace, and then held out a hand. Belhadron stood and pulled Legolas up with him, propping the blond elf up as he stood so Legolas didn't have to put as much weight on the injured leg. Legolas stumbled anyway, and Faramir put out a hand to keep him upright.

"He will be fine for the time," said Belhadron, grimacing as he tripped up a little over the Westron words. Legolas had one hand on Belhadron's shoulder, using the dark-haired elf to keep himself upright, and Faramir took his hand from Legolas' other arm slowly, checking the blond elf would stay vertical.

"Are you alright?" he asked Belhadron, his eyes flitting over the tear in the arm of his tunic, the gash in his temple and the dried blood covering his forehead and one side of his face.

Belhadron shrugged. "I am well," he said, beginning to walk Legolas slowly over to where the horses were being brought through. Faramir walked beside him, keeping match to Legolas' limping pace. "The wounds are not too bad. How many are hurt?"

Faramir's eyes flickered over to where a few men were lying on the ground, with some others crouched beside them. "Six are badly hurt enough to return now," he said. "I will ride back with them, and the rest of the men will remain to bring the captured Easterlings back. We have twenty six men still alive, some badly hurt. Their companions will bear the stretchers for them on the way back." It was a good way to ensure their cooperation. Faramir knew these men were probably close, given that they had survived together for all this time since the War. Making the men carry the stretchers bearing their hurt friends could stop them from trying to attack or escape, as could the promise of medical care.

Belhadron nodded, adjusting the arm he had around Legolas' waist as the blond elf stumbled on the wounded leg. The gash was nasty, deep enough to make it rather difficult to walk, and Faramir was actually surprised that Legolas was not limping any more than he was at the moment.

The Rangers wounded badly enough to return to Minas Tirith were already with the horses, and after a brief argument between the two elves, Belhadron whistled and called over Arod and Ascar.

Legolas winced as Belhadron boosted him up onto Arod, and then held back a sigh of relief as the weight left his leg and the throbbing ceased. He looked over at Faramir, who was heading for his own horse.

"We can both take one of the injured back," he said, his gaze drifting to the Rangers either lying or sitting down nearby. There were six of them, with a collection of bandages or splints. Two were unconscious, the other four barely holding on.

Faramir nodded. "That would make things easier," he said. "Mablung, get them onto the horses and we'll head back." He mounted his own horse, and then moved him closer to the men. Mablung knelt and picked up one of those who were unconscious, one arm under the man's shoulders, another under his knees. Carefully he handed the man up to Faramir, who pulled him up in front of the saddle and put one arm around the man's waist. The man's head lolled back onto Faramir's shoulder.

Faramir adjusted his grip and gathered up the reins in one hand, the other pressing on a folded up torn cloak over the man's side. A torn piece of cloth was wrapped around the man's head. He sighed.

It wasn't meant to be like this anymore. He didn't want this to happen anymore. And though he had learnt long ago it was futile to wish for a change, he couldn't help but hope.

Upon first seeing the six men there, wounded and lying there in pain, he had thought that they had come away well. And then he had almost felt sick upon realising that he had thought that, that after so many years fighting he had reduced the men who were injured to odds, to a measure of how well they had come away from the battle. Faramir had seen Mablung thinking along the same lines, the same clinical look followed by the faint disgust at what he had just thought.

And before the War, Faramir would have accepted this, told himself that it was necessary for what they were doing, for what they giving up to try and defend Gondor. But it wasn't necessary, not anymore.

They were meant to have won.

He watched as Beregond pulled one of the slightly better off men to his feet and supported him as he stumbled over to Arod. Legolas held out a hand, and then Beregond boosted the man up to sit in front of the blond elf. The man had one arm bound tightly to his chest, and one leg was swathed in thick bandages and a splint.

Nearby, Belhadron was guiding one man towards his horse with Mablung. The Ranger, Faramir remembered, had taken a hard hit to the head, and was drifting in and out of consciousness. He seemed better, but then as Faramir watched the Ranger suddenly fell forwards, his eyes rolling up in his head.

Belhadron darted forwards and caught the Ranger's shoulders, coming to kneel in front of the man with his head on Belhadron's chest. Faramir, despite the situation, smiled softly at Belhadron's murmur to Mablung that made the man chuckle, and Belhadron grin. Between them the man and elf got the Ranger up and between them.

Belhadron whistled for Ascar to stand still, and then him and Mablung carefully put the unconscious Ranger up onto Ascar. With Mablung holding the man in place, Belhadron swiftly vaulted up and settled behind the man, one hand around the man's waist and the other tangled in Ascar's mane for balance. Faramir watched as he looked down and said something to Mablung, the seasoned Ranger grinning in response.

Soon the rest of the six men were seated in front of other riders, and two other Rangers were mounted to head back with them. Faramir nudged his horse around, steering with his legs. The Ranger in front of him shifted slightly, but his horse was well used to carrying two people and was not phased by the change in weight.

Mablung and Beregond came up beside him, and Faramir looked down. "Try and come back as soon as you can," he said. "I want both of you up at the Citadel as soon as you are back, and every man who was with you, Mablung, in with the healers."

"Shouldn't be hard, my Lord," said Mablung with a small smile. "They're all heading back with you now."

Faramir glanced at the assembled men. He hadn't noticed that before. "Good," he said. "But I still want anyone hurt, no matter how superficial it is, in the Houses of Healing the moment you get back in the city. Entrust the Easterlings to someone else. The healers can cope."

Both men nodded, and Faramir smiled grimly at them. "Don't let the men out of your sight, at all," he said. "Have as many as possible carry makeshift stretchers with their friends. That should stop them making any trouble."

"We know, my Lord," said Beregond with a small smile. "You told us already."

"Then indulge me," said Faramir with a smile that was more of a grimace. It soon faded. "Take care, both of you. I want to see both of you back in Minas Tirith before midday tomorrow."

Mablung nodded, and then another Ranger came over and muttered something. Mablung glanced up at Faramir, and at his nod, left. Beregond looked up at Faramir.

"Take care, my Lord," he said. Faramir smiled.

"I will," he said. With a touch of his heels to his horse's flanks, he moved his horse away, and the small party began the journey back to Minas Tirith.

0-o-0-o-0

The ride back to Minas Tirith took, in Faramir's opinion, far too long. They could not travel any faster than a slow canter through Ithilien without risking the horses stumbling under the strange weight of two people on top of them. Each one of the injured men being carried was unconscious now, having given in as soon as they knew they were relatively safe.

Behind him rode Legolas, one arm wrapped securely around a young Ranger who Faramir remembered still as the overexcited soldier riding out to Ithilien with him years ago. He had actually been part of the party who had come across Frodo and Sam, and was a ferocious fighter for someone so young.

Faramir's gaze drifted to the splinted leg and bloody tunic, one arm heavily swathed in bandages and bound tightly to his chest to keep it still. Being a good fighter didn't necessarily guarantee you would walk away from a fight unharmed. He himself could attest to that.

Legolas caught his eye, and the two exchanged a tired smile. Arod pushed forwards, and Legolas came up to ride beside Faramir.

"How far out are we?" he asked, his voice soft so there was no chance of waking the man siting in front of him.

Faramir glanced at the surrounding forest. "We're close to Osgiliath now," he said. "And once there we can travel faster on the road." He looked over at Legolas, noticing how pale the blond elf was, and the blood slowly soaking through the bandage wrapped around his leg. "Your wound is bleeding again," he said.

Legolas glanced back to where Belhadron was riding more towards the back of the group. The Ranger he had in front of him had woken up rather violently at one point, and the elf had to pull Ascar back so one of the two Rangers riding alone could talk to the man and calm him down.

"I know," he murmured softly. He glanced down at his leg, at the bandage that was slowly turning red. "But there is nothing we can do right now."

"We could stop," suggested Faramir, but even as he said the words he knew they couldn't.

Legolas shook his head, and smiled wryly at Faramir. "Far better to wait until we get back to Minas Tirith for Belhadron to shout at me for ignoring it than letting him do it now."

Faramir chuckled. "I suppose," he said. He adjusted his grip on the man sitting in front of him and tried not to think of how Boromir used to do the same to him.

"We will have to send forces out into these woods," said Faramir, almost talking to himself. "Flush out the men. They have been in here far too long already." In his head, he was already hashing out a plan, and talking out loud was easier than having all the ideas circling through his mind again and again

Legolas nodded slightly as he listened, but really was having a hard enough time just focusing on Faramir's words. The loss of blood from his leg wound was starting to get to him, and a slight lightheaded feeling that was rather familiar was just beginning to coalesce at the edges of his mind. He didn't notice Faramir had stopped talking until a faint sound reached his ears, and then he turned to look at Faramir in surprise. "Are you humming?" he asked quietly, a smile appearing on his face.

Faramir blushed slightly and nodded. "He's beginning to stir, and too much movement will upset the balance," he said, nodding at the man sat in front of him. "A tune seems to still him. Sorry, I'll stop."

"No, don't," said Legolas. "But I recognise the tune. What is it?"

"Oh, it's the Lay of Leithian," said Faramir. He didn't know why his mind had dredged the tune up from old memories, but it had been the first thing he had thought of, and still he could remember the soft tune, even a few of the words.

Legolas turned to him, the surprise evident on his face. "How do you know that song?" he asked. He had known the song in his own tongue for a very long time, and had learnt the Westron version from Aragorn along with others, like the Lay of Nimrodel, decades ago, but had never met another mortal besides Aragorn and the Dunedain who knew it as well.

"Mithrandir," said Faramir. "I found a record of the tale in the archives of the city. As a boy, I got my hands on any of the old lore I could find in our archives. I found excerpts of the tale and notes of it being a song. When Mithrandir next visited, I begged him to teach me the song, and he obliged."

Legolas smiled softly. "It's a sad tale," he said softly.

Faramir shook his head. "Out of all of the lore I have found, their tale seems one of the only ones that ended remotely well."

Legolas didn't say anything for a moment, his gaze returning to the route ahead of them. The Ranger in Faramir's arms began to stir again, a muffled whimper forcing its way out of clenched teeth, and Faramir began to hum again, words soon finding their way out of his mouth as he sung the tune in a murmur.

"Have you ever heard the lay in Sindarin?" asked Legolas suddenly, his voice soft.

Faramir looked over at the blond elf. "No, I haven't," he said. He had tried translating a little of the tales with the Sindarin he had learnt from their archives and Mithrandir, but he had never known enough, and then his father had found out and stopped him. Well, Denethor had thought he had stopped him. Boromir had…liberated some of Faramir's more useful scrolls from the archives and had helped Faramir hide them in his room.

"The Westron translation is indeed good," said Legolas. "But the original was sung in Sindarin, and is more lovely than any song in Westron." He smiled. "Though I am biased in that matter."

Faramir chuckled, and then fell silent. He wanted Legolas to sing the lay in his own tongue, his curiosity about elves and the language rising up again. But it wouldn't be right to ask outright, so he kept quiet and hoped, starting to sing under his breath again.

After a few moments, another voice joined his. Faramir risked a glance sideways to see Legolas singing softly, the Sindarin mingling with Faramir's Westron. Faramir eventually stopped and Legolas' voice was the only one heard as he sung.

Legolas had been right, thought Faramir as he listened. From the sudden silence behind him, he could tell the others were listening. The song, rising and falling with Legolas' lilting voice, was breathtakingly beautiful. Though Faramir couldn't understand the words, he didn't have to, for it was almost like the song managed to paint the image in his head, an ever shifting mirage of lands long lost, of pain and strength and hope and love, that Faramir hadn't realised were colours until now.

There was magic in the song. Faramir rather suspected that the Sindarin, the ancient language that it was, merely amplified the magic rather than adding anything new. It wasn't the conventional idea of magic, not anything similar to what most people thought of when the word was said. But there was a magic in the song nonetheless, just as there was magic in any song or tale. Faramir didn't know how it worked, or why it was there, but he couldn't argue with its presence, even if he ever wanted to.

Eventually the song finished and Legolas' voice faltered, before falling silent. To Faramir, it was like surfacing from the Anduin, on the very rare occasion he had swum in it out of necessity. Sounds that had been muffled by the song were now sharp again, the sound of birds in the trees or the muffled beats of the horse's hooves as they cantered slowly through the woods.

And then another voice picked up a song. This one was different, a different tune, and Faramir was pretty sure it was actually a different language to the Sindarin Legolas had been singing in. It was similar, definitely Elvish, but different, sounding almost more wild, more natural, and Faramir guessed it was Silvan.

Belhadron, of course, was singing it. His voice was just a little deeper than Legolas', almost a better singing voice, but none of that mattered because again they were all lost, whilst knowing exactly where they were at the same time.

Even Belhadron's voice trailed off after a while, and Faramir saw Legolas look back at him incredulously. Belhadron shrugged, a small smile on his face.

"I haven't heard you sing that song in years," murmured Legolas, switching back to Silvan.

Belhadron's expression didn't change. "I just forgot about it," he said softly. "I forgot." He had a wistful smile on his face, but Faramir thought his eyes looked a little darker, a little haunted, and he wondered where the song had come from, and what it meant.

After a few seconds Belhadron began humming under his breath, and then Legolas, picking up the tune, joined in. The rest of them rode in silence as they weaved through the forest.

It wasn't too long before they were back on the road and then in Osgiliath, and Faramir could feel the relief from the soldiers riding behind him. Within the city they stopped briefly, walking down the main road to give their horses a break, whilst a few of them tried to coax water into the men in front of them with waterskins offered by the men within the city. Only a few men were conscious enough to drink, though, and soon the party set off again, moving through Osgiliath as smoothly as possible, the horses remaining in slow canters interspersed with brief walks.

Faramir nearly collapsed in the saddle with relief when he saw the great gates of Minas Tirith come closer. Belhadron was still humming softly, the tune having finally settled on something Faramir remotely recognised, vaguely remembering Aragorn humming the tune at one point or another. Legolas had fallen silent.

The gates were open, as they always were now during the day, and Faramir only pulled his horse up slightly, slowing down to a more sedate canter as they approached. The guards spotted them and a cry rung out from the parapet above the gates.

"Make way!" he called. "Clear the courtyard!"

The people in the courtyard scattered as the horses came cantering in. Faramir caught the eye of the captain in charge and nodded at him reassuringly, at least letting him know that they were not carrying corpses, but barely slowed the pace and headed immediately for the wide street, the second level of the city, and ultimately the Houses of Healing.

To Be Continued...


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as the horses clattered to a halt in the smaller courtyard outside the Houses of Healing, there were healers already coming out of the doorway bearing stretchers. Faramir slipped from his horse, carefully pulling the Ranger sat in front of him into his arms as soon as his feet had hit the ground. Two healers were already there with a stretcher and Faramir laid the man down carefully. He winced as the movement pulled at aching muscles and cuts he was only just beginning to notice now.

His men were doing the same with those they had been riding with. Across from him Belhadron had actually made Ascar kneel, the easier for him to pull off the unconscious Ranger without losing his balance. Healers came over with a stretcher, and then the man disappeared into the Houses.

Almost as soon as Belhadron had relinquished his charge he moved over to Arod and Legolas, who had let the Ranger Arod had been carrying slip down to another man. Belhadron put up one arm and Legolas shook his head, leaning forwards to dismount from Arod. Faramir watched as Belhadron swiftly muttered something, and caught Legolas as his feet hit the ground, preventing him from putting weight on his injured leg. Even then, Legolas' face whitened as he stumbled a little, a blinding throb of pain passing up from his leg.

Faramir gritted his teeth in sympathy. He had had a wound to the leg before, and it had taken him a week before he could walk without a rather heavy limp.

Stable hands came forwards to take the horses, two of them looking rather confused over Arod and Ascar with no tack, but both horses began to follow the hands and they headed off. Faramir made his way to Legolas and Belhadron, who were conversing quietly.

Belhadron looked up as Faramir joined them. "Estel?" he asked, before mentally cursing. "Aragorn."

"I will send someone to fetch him," said Faramir, looking around for a page or guard or anyone, really. "He is in council at the moment."

Belhadron shook his head. "I will go," he said. "It will be more fast."

"Quicker," murmured Legolas from where he was leaning against Belhadron, grinning slightly at the dark-haired elf. Belhadron merely rolled his eyes.

"It will be quicker," he repeated. He gently nudged Legolas and murmured something in Elvish. Legolas straightened, and Faramir was a little surprised at how pale his face was. His gaze flickered to the bandage around Legolas' leg, noticing it was now completely soaked through and nearly dripping.

"Fine," he said. "Legolas, someone needs to look at that leg." He placed a hand on Legolas' shoulder and then, with silent permission from Belhadron, took a little of the elf's weight as Belhadron stepped away.

Legolas took his own weight, mostly, though his wounded leg was trembling badly, and Belhadron, with one last unreadable glance at Legolas, turned and began to run up to the Citadel.

0-o-0-o-0

His head was throbbing, and his arm was beginning to ache rather fiercely, but Belhadron ignored it as he ran up the steps and reached the courtyard of the citadel. Knowing how quickly word could spread, he wasn't surprised that the guards didn't try and stop him, and that one of them was already holding open one of the side doors leading into the citadel.

"Aragorn?" he asked the guard, pausing momentarily as he entered. Aragorn had shown him around the city yesterday, between them arriving and the feast last night, but he was pretty sure the head wound was scrambling his thoughts a little, because he couldn't remember where to go at all.

"The King?" asked the guard, taking in Belhadron's rather fierce glare, not to mention the blood coating more than half of him, one way or another, and gulped. "Second door on the right," he said.

Belhadron nodded, and moved through the door without another word, striding down the corridor. The guard's mention of how the King was in council and was not to be disturbed died on his lips, because honestly even if he didn't think the elf had a very valid reason for interrupting the King, he wasn't about to argue with a being hundreds of years older than him who, admitted the guard to himself, was just a little terrifying.

Belhadron stalked down the corridor, his eyes on the second door on his left. There was a guard outside it, and he half-heartedly moved to stand in front of the door.

"King Elessar and the council are not to be disturbed," he said, his voice unfortunately coming out a little higher than he would have liked.

Belhadron didn't even bother speaking to the guard, merely reaching around him and opening the door. The guard attempted to step in front of him again, and actually impressed Belhadron a little with his determination. Still, it was a waste of time, and the elf merely ducked around him and went into the room.

A voice fell abruptly silent as Belhadron entered, and all eyes turned to the dark-haired elf stained with blood, with the slightly feral eyes. Aragorn, who was sitting at the head of the table, stood as Belhadron stalked towards him.

"Forty three men, in Ithilien," said Belhadron, not even considering translating into Westron for the benefit of the councillors. He knew Aragorn could understand him easily in SIndarin. "We were ambushed. Six of yours are badly wounded and here now with Faramir. Twenty-six of the Easterlings are still alive. Mablung and Beregond are bringing them back with the rest of the men Faramir rode with to aid us."

Aragorn merely nodded and came out from behind the table. "Legolas?" he asked as he came towards Belhadron. He knew that the blond elf would not be wounded badly, because otherwise Belhadron wouldn't be here talking to him, but he still wanted to make sure.

"He's alright," said Belhadron with a small shrug. "A painful gash to his leg, but then none of us with Mablung came away unharmed."

"No," said Aragorn, his gaze taking in the blood staining Belhadron's arm, the dried blood coating half his face. "I can see that. You are alright?"

"I am fine, Estel," said Belhadron. "But the healers may appreciate your skills." He didn't say the unspoken words that he knew Aragorn caught anyway, that he didn't exactly trust any of the healers here, not yet, and would rather like Aragorn to be the one to look at Legolas' leg. Old habits, like trying to keep your friend alive, died hard.

Aragorn nodded, and turned to his councillors. "You are dismissed," he said. "I will send word when I am next able to meet with you."

"But my Lord…" said one of them, rising to his feet. "We still have many matters that need our attention, and we do not know what is happening…" His gaze shifted pointedly to Belhadron.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, before catching Belhadron's gaze and telling his councillors he would send someone to explain everything to them. Belhadron refrained from grabbing Aragorn's arm and pulling him out of the room, and the two of them turned to leave.

"My Lord!" cried one of the councillors again, and this time it was Aragorn's turn to grab Belhadron's arm as the elf turned and, to Aragorn's surprise, pretty much growled at the councillor, who abruptly sat down again. Without a single word, Belhadron turned around like nothing had happened and began to walk with Aragorn out of the room.

Aragorn let go of the elf's arm, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the guard outside the door, he turned to Belhadron.

"A word of advice," he said, unable to prevent a grin from spreading across his face. "If you want my councillors to cooperate in the long term, it is probably best not to growl at them."

Belhadron ducked his head with an abashed grin. "You know me," he said softly. "I can't stand politics, Estel."

0-o-0-o-0

As soon as Aragorn and Belhadron entered the Houses of Healing, their eyes adjusting quickly to the dimmer light inside, the small smiles fell from their faces, and both grew grim again. Aragorn felt a strange feeling stir within him as the scent of blood and healing herbs, part revulsion at having to smell it all again, and part weary acceptance of what was to come.

Ioreth met him just inside the door and was instantly talking, explaining how badly each of the men was hurt and what they were doing for them. Belhadron stopped listening as soon as he saw Faramir sitting across the room from him, next to a low bed. He was talking to someone lying on the bed, and though Faramir blocked Belhadron's view, he instantly guessed whom it was.

He hurried quickly across the room, weaving his way around low beds and tables, and when Faramir caught his gaze and only a small hint of a smile tugged at his lips, he only quickened his pace. Belhadron dropped to his knees beside the low bed, one hand already outstretched towards his friend.

"You look far worse than you did moments ago," he murmured, his hand hovering over the bloodied bandage. "Ai Valar, Legolas, you cannot stay away from trouble, can you?"

Legolas, sitting back on the bed, attempted a grin that ended up as more of a grimace. His face was pale, even paler than before, and his breathing was a little harsh.

"I'll be fine," Legolas murmured in Westron, glancing over at Faramir with a smile. "It's not that bad."

"The bandage is soaked through," Faramir pointed out. "And it really would have been better for the healer to have looked at it immediately." Belhadron found his liking of Faramir rise another notch at those words.

"There are more pressing injuries," said Legolas. "I am fine."

"You are not," came a new voice, and all three turned to see Aragorn approaching, a slight frown on his face. Belhadron moved to sit on the end of the bed and Aragorn sat down on the edge of the bed next to Legolas.

"How long ago was this?" asked Aragorn, slicing away the bandages around Legolas' leg.

Belhadron looked up. "And by that, he means how much more blood can you stand to lose before you pass out?" Aragorn snorted in amusement, and Legolas just rolled his eyes, murmuring a brief translation to Faramir.

"He should be good for now," murmured Belhadron to Aragorn. "The wound isn't threatening, he's just lost some blood." He glanced over at Legolas, who had closed his eyes as Aragorn pulled the bandages away from his leg. A hiss came from clenched teeth as Aragorn pulled away the last of the sodden cloth, and the wound started bleeding again.

A healer came bearing a tray of hot water, needle and thread and bandages, which she placed on the floor next to the bed. "Is there anything else needed, my Lord?" she asked, reaching out a hand and taking away the scraps of bloody cloth from the bed.

It was Aragorn who she directed the question to, but it was Legolas who opened his mouth and answered. "Yes, actually there is," he said, trying to turn his head without jarring his leg and failing as he winced. Legolas' gaze flickered over to Belhadron. "Even if he won't admit it, Belhadron is injured too. If there are no more pressing injuries, could you look at him?"

The healer nodded. "Of course, my Lord," she said. "Give me a moment to fetch some more supplies." Legolas nodded and let his head sink back against the wall. Belhadron shot him a swift glare, but there was no real heat behind it.

"Don't lie," murmured Legolas. "Your head has been troubling you ever since we left Ithilien." Belhadron's hand went up to the gash on his head, and he winced as he gently felt the length of it. His hand then went to his arm, and he unfastened the thicker suede tunic he wore over the top, rather like Legolas', slipping it off so he was only wearing a dark blue undershirt.

Aragorn shifted on the bed and reached down for something on the tray. Turning to Legolas, he held out a small cup. "Drink," he said. Legolas eyed it warily, and Aragorn sighed. "Drink, or Belhadron and I will force it down your throat."

"And you know we would," muttered Belhadron with a small grin, rolling up his left sleeve to look at the gash. Legolas reluctantly drank down the cup, grimacing at the foul taste. But at least he recognised the taste as something to dull the pain, not to send him to sleep. He hated any form of sleeping draught, and there was more than one memorable occasion where Belhadron had literally forced him to drink one down so he could rest.

There came the sudden pattering of light feet, and all of them, bar Aragorn who was focusing on threading the needle and beginning to sew, looked up to see Eowyn appear in the doorway. As soon as her eyes caught Faramir's she visibly relaxed, walking at a more sedate pace over to where the four of them were sat.

"Are you alright?" she asked as Faramir reached for her hand. One of her hands gently stroked the side of his face.

"I am fine," Faramir said with a soft smile. "I wasn't there for the most part." He gently squeezed Eowyn's hand in reassurance, understanding fully well the worry that his wife must have felt when reports of them bringing wounded back reached her. This wasn't meant to happen anymore, and Faramir knew that it would have dredged up old memories.

He stood from the chair, still holding onto Eowyn's hand, and turned to Aragorn. "If I am not needed, I will check on my men and then head up to the citadel," he said.

Aragorn paused in his work and looked over his shoulder at Faramir. "No, that's fine," he said, his mind only half on Faramir's words. "Will you speak to my councillors as well? They have no idea what is going on, and I won't make it back to them today." The sun was already beginning to fall down in the sky, and twilight wouldn't be too far away.

"Of course," said Faramir. He looked down at Legolas, who was breathing harshly through clenched teeth with his eyes closed, and briefly clasped his shoulder. Legolas opened his eyes and turned his head, smiling briefly when he saw Faramir there. Faramir nodded, turned and left.

Aragorn returned to his stitching, mopping up the steady trickle of blood from the gash before putting in another stitch. Legolas hissed as he did so, and Aragorn looked up.

"I can get you something more, if you want," he said.

Legolas shook his head. "It's fine," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Just keep going."

Aragorn smiled softly as Legolas grinned at him, and turned back to the wound. Just then, the healer came back carrying another tray. Belhadron sat up straighter, stretching his arms and grimacing as the gash in one arm protested at the movement.

"If my Lord would sit over here," said the healer; gesturing at the chair Faramir had left. "And tell me where you are hurt." Her voice, though soft, was still commanding, and it made Aragorn smile to see Belhadron immediately stand up and make his way over to the chair.

"My head and arm," he said, tilting his head to one side so the healer could see the gash on his temple, and shifting around to show the tear in his tunic's arm.

The healer nodded. "Any sickness or dizziness?" she asked, tilting Belhadron's head to look at the cut.

Belhadron paused, and his eyes flickered to Aragorn. Thankfully Aragorn caught the problem, and swiftly translated into Sindarin. Belhadron answered back in Sindarin, and then Aragorn turned to the healer. "A little dizziness, no sickness," he said. "But I doubt the gash has done much harm. He's an elf, after all."

The healer nodded, and turned back to Belhadron. "I'll clean your head wound first," she said, dipping a clean cloth in hot water and wringing it out. "Hold still."

Belhadron obligingly held still, his head tilted so the healer could clean the blood that had run down his face. Seeing as it had all dried hours ago, it took some determination on the part of the healer to get it off.

The room was near silent now, the healers working to tend to the wounds. Eventually Aragorn finished, wrapping Legolas' leg tightly in white bandages. Belhadron, his arm with two stitches and a bandage and the dried blood gone from his face, had pulled his knees up to his chest and almost curled up in the chair, looking a little like a large cat. He was absentmindedly fiddling with his knife, the one he had thrown at that man that Legolas had finally given back.

With a wince Legolas sat up, grabbing hold of Aragorn's hand that he offered to help out. It seemed an unspoken agreement that none of them would stay in the Houses of Healing any longer than they had to. Belhadron slipped the knife into a sheath at the back of his belt and stood, gathering up the assorted weapons that had become littered around the bed.

Legolas grimaced as he stood up, and Aragorn sighed, grinning as he slung Legolas' arm over his shoulders. "How is this still happening to us?" he asked.

Legolas chuckled, and shook his head. "If I knew, I would have told you. But I gave up on questioning it a long time ago."

0-o-0-o-0

It took far too long for Aragorn to placate his councillors, speak with Faramir to get a full report and do absolutely everything else a King was apparently meant to do in this situation.

Eventually, when night had long since settled over Gondor, Aragorn had finally had enough of councillors questioning him, of people continuously asking what was going to be done, when they were going to retaliate. After a half hour long debate between some people who probably shouldn't have even been involved, but seen fit to bring themselves into the room, Aragorn gave up.

"Enough," he said, raising his voice just enough so that he could be heard over the chatter around him, and pitching it so it sounded calm, but with an edge that he knew could make people nervous.

The talk died abruptly, and gazes turned to Aragorn as he stood from where he had been sitting, looking over a detailed map of Ithilien that had been drawn up by the Rangers a while back.

"This is enough for tonight," he said, glancing around the room to make sure he had everyone's attention, though he needn't bother. "We have forty men moved out to Osgiliath with horses to meet Mablung and Beregond with the captured Easterlings. More supplies have been sent out there as well. Unless anyone has any pressing concerns, we are finished for tonight." He pushed back his chair and waited for a moment, seeing if anyone would speak, before turning and leaving the room.

Aragorn held back the sigh until the door had swung shut behind him, and then he ran his hand through his hair. It was moments like this, when everyone's eyes were on him for exactly what to do, what it meant, constantly judging and watching, that made him foolishly wish to be a Ranger again.

But even as he thought that the feeling passed and he felt, once again, like he belonged here. This was his now, through it still took a little adjusting to at times.

He headed down the corridors of the Citadel a little quicker than usual, so hopefully nobody would intercept him and ask for yet another thing. Pushing open the doors to his and Arwen's living room, Aragorn stopped when he heard laughter coming from inside.

He recognised the tone of it, would have recognised it anywhere, and it made him smile. He walked in, his gaze going to where the two elves were seated in front of the fire.

Legolas was laughing at something Arwen had said, his wounded leg propped up in front of him. Aragorn supposed his wife liked to be able to catch up with the blond elf, given how she was surrounded by men in this city, and rarely saw another elf.

"You better not be laughing because my wife just told you yet another embarrassing story about me." Legolas looked over, and just chuckled, not saying anything. Aragorn sighed good-naturedly and dropped down to sit next to his wife.

"Where is Belhadron?" he asked.

"Habits die hard," said Legolas with a wry grin. "He's checking over Ascar and Arod, and then the weapons." He shifted in his chair, grimacing as it jarred his leg. "I told him where we would be." A log on the fire shifted and fell down with a crackle. Aragorn, who had been watching the fire and saw the log going, did nothing, but Legolas jumped ever so slightly at the sound, his head turning instantly towards the source.

Legolas held back a sigh as he tried to settle back into the chair. It was foolish, jumping at the sound of a crackling log, but he had allowed his mind to relax, the part of him that had kept him alive under Mirkwood's trees all those years settling down in the back of his mind. A sudden noise was just the thing to bring it jumping back.

Aragorn watched Legolas out of the corner of his eye, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, before the blond elf relaxed back into the chair again. He guessed, correctly, that it was something left over from the war. The Valar knew they all had them. Sometimes the bustle and crowded feel of the citadel had Aragorn on edge, trying not to jump at any sudden movement until he managed to escape or Arwen noticed and came up with excuses to allow him to get out.

He knew that if Arwen woke to find him not in their bed, she wouldn't rest until she physically had hold of him. Aragorn had taken to subtly waking his wife when he woke in the morning if she was still wandering in dreams, so she knew he was there.

Legolas glanced up from the fire, small crinkles forming around his eyes as he smiled at Aragorn. He looked tired, realised Aragorn. "How is your leg?" he asked.

"It's fine," answered Legolas automatically, his smile widening at Aragorn's exasperated sigh at the elf's answer. "It will heal." In a week he would only have a slight limp. In two it wouldn't be noticeable.

The door swung open, and the three of them looked up to see Belhadron walk in. By now both him and Legolas were clean of their bloody clothes, the dried blood washed from their skin and hair. Belhadron still had the gash across his temple, dark purple bruising shadowing it, but it was already closed over.

Legolas shot a quick glance towards Aragorn as Belhadron greeted them. He paused in front of the fire, and Aragorn noticed that his eyes couldn't seem to settle on it completely, jumping around the edge of the hearth.

"May I…?" he asked uncertainly, waving a hand at the fire. Aragorn noticed the slight ticking muscle in his jaw, which was clenched tight.

"By all means," he said, his voice even and light. Belhadron crouched down in front of the fire and drew out the poker to one side. With quick deft movements he knocked most of the burning logs away, forcing the fire to die down. He put the poker back carefully, with hands that were accustomed to handling something similar, if quite a bit sharper and far more deadly.

Legolas glanced over at Belhadron as he sat next to him, the tension leaving him as the fire died down. "Good?" he asked softly. Belhadron merely nodded.

Legolas remembered the first time Belhadron had done this, at least in front of him. It had been only a week since he had returned home after the War, and it had been raining heavily. He was in his rooms, attempting to dry out his sodden cloak, when Belhadron walked in. That in itself was nothing special: the elf used Legolas' rooms almost as much as his own.

What had been strange was when Belhadron instantly went to the fire Legolas had built up and threw a pitcher of water over it, putting it out. Legolas had paused and waited for an explanation. All Belhadron had said was that Mirkwood had burnt.

Legolas didn't question it again.

They stayed in that room for a while, talking softly. Nobody moved to put another log on the fire, but the small flames provided just enough light, with the help of a few candles. Eventually, though, they left, Aragorn and Arwen going to their rooms and Belhadron and Legolas heading their own way.

Belhadron had one hand discreetly hovering by Legolas' arm, just in case his leg did give way. At least, he did until Legolas rolled his eyes and batted his hand away. "I am able to walk to my room without falling over," he said, though a small grin came across his face.

Belhadron chuckled. "If you insist," he said softly, but he still stuck close to Legolas' side until they reached the door leading to Legolas' rooms. "Goodnight, mellon-nin," Belhadron said softly.

"I think it's more morning now," said Legolas with a smile. "But goodnight." He pushed open the door to his room and headed inside. The fire had already been lit, and the room was warm. With the day he had had, and the pain coming in sharp waves from his leg, it didn't take Legolas long to fall asleep on the bed, his eyes half lidded as he walked in dreams.

A little while later, a dark shadow appeared on the balcony of the room. It silently moved through the open doors, and resolutely kept its back to the fire in the hearth that was beginning to die down.

Belhadron paused at the foot of the bed, his sharp eyes reassuring him that Legolas was fine, that he was breathing still and asleep. He did nothing more other than stand there for a few minutes, watching the rise and fall of his friend's chest, and knowing that the blond elf would do exactly the same, if their positions were reversed.

Memories that the potency of he thought had worn off had surfaced in his mind, and he couldn't help wondering, just a small part of him, whether it was really over. It had to be over. The rational part of his mind knew that they had indeed won, though a heavy price had been paid. But still he could not be totally sure.

But even if he knew, completely and utterly, that it was really over, he thought he would still be standing here, watching, making sure that he hadn't lost his friend. The War had torn a lot away from a lot of people, and by the Valar, he deserved to make sure he held onto this.

To Be Continued...


	8. Chapter 8

Faramir didn't bother looking around at the sound of soft footsteps from behind him. He recognised them easily, and his gaze remained on the smouldering embers of the fire in the hearth of their living room.

"Are you coming back to bed?"

Eowyn's voice was soft from sleep, and the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Faramir's mouth as he heard it. But still he didn't turn around, his fingers drumming quietly on the stem of the goblet in his hands.

"It's only an hour or so until it is light," he murmured. "There isn't much point. Sorry if I woke you."

There was the soft whisper of fabric behind him, and then he could hear Eowyn crossing the room to come stand behind his chair. Faramir sighed softly, relaxing ever so slightly as Eowyn leant over the back of the chair, her arms resting on his shoulders. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"Don't worry," she said softly, moving to reassuringly squeeze his shoulders. "I've had a few good hours of sleep. I wasn't expecting much more tonight."

At that Faramir tilted his head back, meeting Eowyn's gaze. He knew exactly what she meant, for it was also the reason he had woken up a little while ago, this time his father's name on his lips as he tried not to cry out.

It had been a little over a year now, and still wounds could be opened so easily, even just by the familiar rush of battle, the sights and sounds that felt so well-known, and yet could still bring back a flood of…something, when that something had been assumed buried.

Well, maybe not buried. Faramir had always known how close to the surface the memories lay, and had suspected just how little it would take to bring them flooding back, though he had hoped we was wrong. But even knowing that did not soften the blow when he saw his father burn again.

It didn't soften whatever it was Eowyn saw at night, either. Faramir couldn't guess what it was she dreamt of, only that she would awake with a shudder, and it would be many minutes before she relaxed again in Faramir's arms.

"Did you dream?" Eowyn suddenly asked, her voice quiet. Her hands brushed his shoulders, and for a moment her fingers ghosted over the puckered scar tissue below Faramir's left shoulder, where that Southron dart had buried itself into his flesh. Faramir had suddenly tensed beneath her hands.

"I did," he said shortly. "It was nothing. Don't worry."

Eowyn squeezed one shoulder sharply, but there was a small smile on her face. "You cannot tell me not to worry, when that is what you constantly do every time I wake from a dream." Her voice softened. "I will always worry. I can't help but worry. Neither can you. But I will always worry, because I will always care."

Faramir paused for a second, and then looked back up at Eowyn, a soft smile coming across his lips. "I really do love you," he said softly.

"Of course you do," said Eowyn with a smile. She leant down and pressed a kiss to Faramir's cheek. Neither one of them were usually so vocal about things like these, but yesterday had been a stressful day for both of them, and it served to not only bring the worse memories and emotions to the surface, but those that they both tried to cherish.

Eowyn sighed softly as she leant her cheek against Faramir's head, and Faramir reached up, lacing his fingers with hers. "It's over," he reminded her. "It really is over."

"It will never be truly finished," murmured Eowyn. "Not really. There will always be another battle in the future, something else that must be fought for."

"I know," said Faramir. "But given what we could have lost, what we have now is…good." Good was probably not the right word, but it was the only one he could come up with at the moment. He was content, for the most part.

"We came so close," murmured Eowyn. On the worst days, she woke feeling like the sun had lost all of its warmth again, like the shadows were at the edge of her vision, and she just missed them whenever she turned her head. It was a constant reminder of just how much they could have lost.

"We did," said Faramir. "And we are never going to have a world without any conflicts, not ever. We have to make do with what we have now." The constant aching gap of the people who they had lost would always be there, the shadows at the edges of their sight, the scars that seemed sometimes to not be healing at all, even if they did fade over time.

"But we still won, Eowyn," Faramir said, his voice suddenly strong. "We won. And for the most part, there will be peace. No, we will never truly be rid of it all. But it is really over."

Eowyn sighed. "I know," she said, a soft smile coming across her face as she pressed her cheek to the top of Faramir's head.

She loved him. When he had first looked on her, she had not seen the gaze she had so often seen in Rohan, from those who had only seen her as the King's niece, as a woman of Rohan.

She had been trapped for so long and had longed for valour and greatness, a chance to do something of worth. She had thought that maybe her disguise, her choice to ride with the Rohirrim into battle, would give her that. In the end, it had been the only option left for her to take, and she had not cared if she had lived or died seeking it. Her fear, of being trapped until all deeds of valour were beyond her, had gone with her choice to break out of that cage, and that left her with what she felt was nothing.

But then she had lived. She had gone to the very edge, and then she had been drawn back again. And what she thought would have freed her left her not knowing what it was she wanted. She had achieved great valour, had broken out of her trappings, but had not been content, and she could not understand why.

But then Faramir had been in the Houses of Healing with her, and she had met the man who was gentle and wise and just as scarred as she was, if not more. She found someone who loved her unconditionally, and it made her content, because she was worth so much to him, with or without great deeds of valour or titles.

And he was worth so much to her.

She loved him. Oh, she did not fully need his love to love herself, at least not now. She liked to think of Faramir as the one who had helped her heal, as she had helped him, but he had only helped. That was important.

And she had not realised it immediately, not for many months after it all, but she knew now that not even Faramir, her wise, brave Faramir, could make her whole. After all, another person cannot fill someone. They can help patch pieces together, but they cannot do it all. It was her choice. She knew her own value now.

Of course, that wasn't to say that she didn't need reminding often. She liked to think that maybe that was what it was meant to be like.

Eowyn straightened, and then realised with an amused smile that Faramir was, in fact, asleep in the chair. Ever so carefully she untwined her hand from his and placed it back in his lap, careful not to wake him. Knowing he would only sleep for an hour or less, she moved with a quiet rustle of skirts to sit in the soft armchair opposite, taking the wine glass out of her husband's hand as she went. A small smile played across her face as she watched Faramir sleep.

They had both been to the edge and back, both passed through shadow and fire. And they, like so many others, were deeply scarred for it. But they had each other, and maybe that was going to be enough.

0-o-0-o-0

The rest of the company returned from Ithilien two hours before midday, and the city returned to the controlled chaos of last night. Almost as soon as they entered Mablung and Beregond were relieved of the men and they headed up to the citadel together.

Faramir met them as they climbed the steps, the relief at seeing them both alive and relatively unharmed evident on his face, though both looked worn and tired, and were still dusty and mussed up from the battle yesterday. It looked like they had not slept nor eaten since yesterday morning.

"What news?" Faramir asked quickly, clapping Beregond on the shoulder in greeting. Aragorn had made a very good decision when appointing Beregond as the Captain of his Guard, which was just another way of saying he was Faramir's second in command. Beregond was one of the most loyal men he knew. Faramir knew, and a small part of him hated, that Beregond would lay down his life for him.

"We lost nobody, if that is what you are asking, my Lord," said Beregond, scraping the hair back from his face. "Making the Easterlings bear the stretchers was a good idea. None of them tried anything. Those we have captured are in the prisons on the lower levels, and the healers are looking at those most grievously injured."

Faramir nodded. "Good," he said. "Did anyone seem to step forwards as a leader?"

"Aye, my Lord," said Mablung. "One of them did. He's been separated from the other men, enough so that he can see them but isn't able to talk without the guards noticing."

"Well done," said Faramir. "Both of you. The rest of the men are alright?" Both Mablung and Beregond could see the slight worry in his face, the fear that he had inadvertently caused the deaths of more men, caused more grief when there should be less now, and they both hastened to reassure him.

"They are," said Beregond. "I gave them all leave, if that is acceptable with you, my Lord? Some of the men are with the healers on the lower levels, but they are only minor hurts." Faramir relaxed, and Beregond felt a small surge of relief at relieving some of the burden on his Lord's shoulders. That was his job, and he wanted to do it well.

Faramir nodded. "Good. I would like to give you both more time, to rest properly, but we do not have the luxury. Lord Aragorn has asked for you both to be present in his study in half an hour's time. For the time being both of you go home to your families, let them know you are safe. I will send a message to have the other captains in the city come to either of you to be briefed, but get what rest you can as well."

Both of the men bowed to Faramir. "Thank you, my Lord," said Beregond. "We will return within the half hour." They turned and departed together, and Faramir watched their backs as they retreated. They both looked weary, he thought. He supposed that both of them, as well, had done their fair share of fighting, and could wish for nothing more than for it to be over again.

The next half hour passed quickly, with Faramir trying to catch up on some of the duties of the Steward that he had neglected over the past few days. He had barely made a dent in the work stacked on his own desk before he found that the half hour had passed, and he made his way into the Citadel and to Aragorn's study.

Someone had shifted all of the chairs around the fireplace to the side of the room, and a large table covered in various maps took up the room. Aragorn was standing at one end of the table, studying a map of Ithilien, with Legolas sat to one side of him. Belhadron was standing behind Legolas, one hand on the back of the blond elf's chair as he leant over, looking at a map.

'-No, I do get what you're saying," Faramir heard Aragorn say to Legolas as he entered the room. "But there isn't enough time, I don't think, and I don't yet know the number of men-"

He broke off and looked up as Faramir entered, and a small smile came across Aragorn's face. "Faramir," he said in greetings, standing away from the table and clasping Faramir's arms in welcome.

Legolas looked over from where he had been talking to Belhadron over his shoulder. "Greetings, Faramir," he said with a smile. "I would stand, but…" He shot a glance at Aragorn, and a passing grin flitted over Aragorn's face. "Aragorn will give me a hard time if I put much more weight on my leg."

Faramir smiled. "How is the wound?" he asked, noticing the elf's colour was almost normal again, and he looked as relaxed as one can when there is thread holding a part of your leg together.

Legolas smiled. "Elves heal fast."

Aragorn chuckled. "Never fast enough for some," he said, with a sly glance at Legolas. The blond elf merely shrugged, and muttered something to Belhadron that made the dark-haired elf roll his eyes and grin. Aragorn turned back to Faramir. "Are the rest coming?" he asked.

"Any minute, my Lord," said Faramir, moving further into the room, not taking a seat just yet. "Mablung and Beregond I sent back to their families, but they know to come at this time. I sent a runner with a message to the other captains both on duty and on leave in the city. They know to speak to either Mablung or Beregond first, before coming here at this time."

"Good," said Aragorn. "Take a seat, Faramir. I think we're going to be here for a while."

Faramir sank down into the chair the other side of Aragorn, and at that moment there was a knock on the door. "Come in," called Aragorn loudly, and the door opened to see Beregond standing in the doorway, Mablung just behind him. Behind them stood around six other men, the captains currently in the city at the moment. All eight of them bowed low to Aragorn.

"Come in, and shut the door behind you," said Aragorn, straightening from the table and inclining his head at their bows. It had taken him a little while to get used to people bowing upon seeing him, and what to do in return, but, as with all aspects of being a King, whether wanted or not, he was slowly getting used to it. "We have work to do."

Once the door shut behind the last man, and they were gathered around the table, Aragorn looked up. "I trust you all know what transpired in Ithilien yesterday," he said, waiting until the men nodded until he continued.

Aragorn sighed ever so slightly. "This is not war. This is an isolated attack. No matter what happened yesterday, we still won the war. I would like all of you to remember that."

Faramir watched as Aragorn laid out the beginnings of a plan, and felt a little bit of awe at the calm, efficient way the King spoke, the trust the men instantly had in his words. His blood and a reforged blade had not been the only things that had made him King.

At the end of the War, whilst Aragorn had ridden to the Black Gates and Faramir had remained in the City, recovering, he had been uneasy. Uneasy, because he had known that the people would not follow Aragorn if he could not be everything they hoped him to be. There is far more to ruling than being a great warrior, Faramir knew, and whilst he knew Aragorn to be a healer as well, he did not know if the man could rule, could rebuild the city after so much destruction.

And he had known it would have been ridiculously easy for him to take control. He knew he could have persuaded people to follow him easily, if he had not deemed Aragorn to be the King everyone hoped for.

But he had not. He could not, not when he saw Aragorn arrive back, saw the elation on people's faces at his return, at the final end of it all. And then he had watched as Aragorn had calmly and quickly taken control, and realised that they were in no danger, none at all. Aragorn could be the King everyone was hoping for. And if there were a few small mistakes along the way, well, Faramir knew even elves weren't infallible, let alone men, and he could always be there to pick up some of the slack when needed.

Aragorn shifted around some of the parchment on the table, and Faramir's attention returned to what the King was saying. "I need lists of men who are in the city, who can ride out to Ithilien tonight."

"We can recall all soldiers from Osgiliath now, my Lord," said Faramir. "There should be a few hundred out there at the moment."

Aragorn shook his head. "The last thing I want to do is to cause panic amongst the people, because they think there is another war coming, or something similar. How many men are in the city right now, and how many of them know Ithilien?"

"There are over six hundred men on active duty in the city, my Lord," said Beregond. "But less than a hundred and fifty of them have had experience in Ithilien, and only sixty or so have been Rangers." A lot of the men that had been Rangers had been lost in the War, defending Osgiliath before the siege of the city. More men had been killed in the War, and there were more still whom Beregond knew couldn't, and shouldn't, ever be a soldier again.

Beregond knew of men who were so deeply scarred that they hadn't been able to stay in the city anymore, hadn't been able to stay in Gondor. Some of them had just left in the middle of the night. Others had come to Faramir, pleading to be released from their duties and to leave the city. In most cases they had left with honour, Faramir and the King both understanding the restless ghosts that the war had left behind. More than a few had been sent north, as Aragorn began to re-establish the realm of Arnor.

Aragorn sighed, running a hand through his hair. "How many in Osgiliath that would be able to fight in Ithilien?" he asked. This time it was Mablung who spoke up.

"At least ten dozen, my Lord," he said. "I know that at least two companies of men who served with me in Ithilien are all out there. A few more who are no longer soldiers are within the city or in Osgiliath as well."

"No," said Aragorn firmly. "I cannot ask men to pick up their swords again, so shortly after being able to put them down. We will make do with the soldiers we have in the city and Osgiliath unless we have dire need of more men. Don't send any messages now, though. Let us wait until we have an actual plan."

Faramir leant forwards, resting his arms on the table. "It would be quicker if we had some more reliable information on where the rest of the men where," he said. "We have men held prisoner, my Lord. They may know the whereabouts of others, their movements and where we could find them." There was nobody in the city much practised at interrogation, as it had been pointless to try and capture, let alone question orcs.

Aragorn nodded. "Faramir, will you see to it?" he asked. "Take Beregond with you as well, and return within the half hour, any information or not." He trusted Faramir to do things properly. Aragorn had known men who, given the opportunity, would beat prisoners senseless just for a twisted sense of what they called justice. It was easy to do, once your mind descended into the right mix of anger and grief, with maybe a bit of guilt thrown in as well, just for good measure.

But Aragorn knew that it would take far, far more than what had happened yesterday to drive Faramir to that edge. He did not think that Faramir would never do such a thing, because all men have an edge, and he was not so naïve. But he was pretty sure it would take an enormous effort for Faramir's edge to even come into view.

Faramir nodded. "We will go now," he said, standing from the table. As Beregond stood as well and began to make his way to the door, Faramir had a thought and paused suddenly, turning back to the room.

"Captain Belhadron, your presence might be valuable as well," he said to Belhadron, slightly awkwardly because asking an elf who was hundreds of years older than him whether he wanted to come and help question prisoners that had caused said elf's friend to be injured had definitely not been at the top of things for him to do today.

"The Easterlings reacted visibly to your presence in Ithilien," Faramir said as Belhadron looked at him, his gaze questioning. "Elves do not seem to be their favourite people. If we must threaten them, then your presence may even be enough. And angry men make mistakes easily."

Belhadron frowned slightly, and then nodded. "It is a good idea," he said. He stepped out from behind Legolas' chair and weaved around the table and chairs in the room, meeting Faramir by the door.

"Don't let him get hurt whilst I am gone, Estel," he said, looking at Legolas pointedly with a small grin, slipping back into Sindarin for ease. Aragorn merely chuckled, and the captains gathered around the table watched as Belhadron slipped out of the door behind Faramir and Beregond. The door swung shut, and then the room was silent again.

Aragorn held back a sigh, and steepled his fingers in front of him. "Let us begin," he said.

To Be Continued...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R.I.P. Christopher Lee- we are incredibly grateful.

The sun was streaming through the high windows in Aragorn's study. It landed on the desk, illuminating the scrolls of parchment, the sharp ink lines of the maps. None of the captains noticed it, as their gaze was on Aragorn instead.

Aragorn thought for a moment, before speaking. "I need numbers of men in the city or Osgiliath that will be able to head out to Ithilien, and a list of supplies that will be needed. Assume that you will be in the forests for more than a week." He was not familiar enough with Ithilien to know how well the forests were for living on, or how best to plan a strategy to scour the woods.

The captains nodded, and Aragorn pulled out the largest map of Ithilien, pushing it towards them. "In case Faramir is unable to gain anything from the prisoners, I also want a rough outline of a strategy for sweeping the woods for any remaining Easterlings. You know Ithilien the best here, Mablung. Take the lead on that."

Mablung nodded. "Of course, my Lord," he replied, reaching out and snagging the map. He looked over it, brow furrowed, and muttered something to one of the other captains standing next to him.

"Good," said Aragorn. "Captains, you know Ithilien far better than I can at the moment. This is your task, and we must hurry." The captains all nodded in agreement and began to work. Mablung was bent over a map with two of the other captains, tracing possible routes out over the inked parchment as they began the foundations of a plan. The rest were gathered together with ink and parchment, and Legolas could hear them tossing names back and forth, the list of companies and men steadily growing longer.

Legolas, who had been watching proceedings with a faint smile on his face, leant back in his chair, pulling a rough map of Ithilien towards him. He winced as he jostled his leg, but the fierce flash of pain soon dulled down to a throb. He glanced over at Aragorn.

"You were right, you know," he said softly, quiet enough so that the men in the room couldn't hear anything beyond a murmur of words. Aragorn looked up.

"Right about what?" he asked, slumping slightly in his chair before remembering where he was and sitting up straighter again, adjusting the collar of the leather overcoat he wore.

"What you said," replied Legolas. "The War is still over. This," he said gesturing at the room around them, the maps strewn across the table, the men talking softly to each other about battle strategies and companies. "Doesn't mean we have suddenly lost."

Aragorn frowned. "I know," he said quietly. "After all, I did just say it a minute ago."

Legolas smiled, but there was a touch of sadness to it. "It just seemed like you needed reminding," he murmured.

Aragorn's gaze softened and he smiled. He glanced at the map in Legolas' hand. "Think of anything?" he asked, nodding at the map.

Legolas grinned and shook his head, letting the map fall back to the table. "I know Ithilien even worse than you," he said softly. "I am no help, Aragorn."

"I highly doubt that," said Aragorn with a small smile. "You are a wood-elf, mellon-nin. There is nobody in Gondor who has the knowledge that you and Belhadron have. No matter what my captains manage to plan, I highly doubt that you will not be able to say something."

Legolas still hesitated slightly, and Aragorn sighed. "Don't be a fool," he muttered quietly. "This is your battle now as well."

Legolas tilted his head to the side, a small smile on his face. "When have I been anything else?" he asked softly. "I followed you all the way here, after all." Both of them chuckled at that, and Legolas leant back in his chair, wincing as it jostled his leg.

Despite Legolas having joined the Quest, having journeyed all across Middle Earth, becoming involved was still something the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen had to consciously make an effort to do. It was ingrained in them to stay out of the way, to look to their own borders and troubles before anyone else's. In their history, becoming involved had rarely done anyone any good.

Aragorn watched the captains for a few moments, before turning back to Legolas. "Will Belhadron want to ride out with Faramir?" he asked softly. "There is no way you are going, but he might be very valuable."

"Probably," said Legolas with a shrug. He knew that he could not go, not with the gash in his leg, but Belhadron's injuries were barely injuries. "He would go a little restless if he remained here, and I know he trusts you enough to go. You aren't going?"

"I am King," said Aragorn with a resigned smile. "And as King, I have other duties which are apparently more important. I cannot just leave whenever I feel like it."

Legolas chuckled. "My father does," he said with a smirk. Aragorn rolled his eyes.

"Yes, of course your father does," he said. "That is because your father can be absolutely terrifying when he wants to be." He had met Thranduil twice now, once when visiting Mirkwood, and once again when handing over Gollum. There was something about the Elvenking that made him feel like a small child when he stood in front of him.

It was probably the ice blue stare that made it feel like your limbs couldn't work properly. Or the voice, like the edge of a cold steel blade that was trying to decide whether or not it was worth taking your head off. Or the feeling that you got standing in front of him that you were so very young compared to him, and so small.

"My father is not that terrifying," said Legolas with a smile. "And I was lying. He barely gets to do anything he wants, at least not when we were still at war. I could evade the councils and meetings. He could not."

Aragorn sighed. "I know the feeling," he muttered. He knew Legolas was speaking the truth, on both accounts. To Legolas, his father was probably not that terrifying. But then Aragorn knew how much Thranduil cared for his son.

To an outsider, it wasn't very obvious. Aragorn knew that most of the time, Thranduil treated Legolas like one of the captains of his army, if a little more familiarly than with some others. When the men and elves had been encamped outside Erebor all those years ago, Bard himself had not realised Legolas was Thranduil's son until after the battle, despite the amount of time the man had spent with Thranduil and all of his captains, including Legolas.

It wasn't very obvious at all, until you were in a position when Thranduil, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, trusted you enough to let down his guard when you were in the room. Only a select number of people reached that level of trust, mainly a few of Thranduil's most valued commanders, and those who Legolas trusted completely.

Aragorn knew you could probably never catch him when he thought you weren't there, because he was King of a realm at war, after all, and everybody was on his or her guard, or they had been up until recently. But Aragorn liked to think that if Thranduil behaved even slightly more like a father than a King when you were around, it meant you were probably safe from his wrath. For that moment. Maybe.

Legolas glanced over at him, at his friend. "You are doing the right thing, you know," he said softly. "Taking the battle to them." Aragorn shook his head with a wry smile.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "The last thing I want to happen is for more people to lose their lives because of this. That's happened enough already. But I do not exactly have a choice anymore, anyway. People will find out what happened, and then they will demand something be done." In all honesty, it was almost a relief for his hand to be forced, because at least it took a part of the decision away from him.

Legolas sighed slightly, remembering how easy it had been for news to spread through Mirkwood. People, no matter what race, talked. His gaze flickered to where Mablung was writing something down, muttering to two other captains who were looking over his shoulder. "I think Mablung has gotten somewhere," he said. Aragorn looked up and nodded.

"Mablung," he said. "Let's see what we've got."

0-o-0-o-0

Beregond tried to keep his eyes from sliding sideways to the dark haired elf walking silently on the other side of Faramir as they headed down the levels of the city to where the Easterlings were being kept. But every so often he failed, and his gaze flickered over to Belhadron.

One of Belhadron's hands stayed on the hilt of his sword, Beregond noticed. It was a straight blade, a shorter sword than the one that usually hung at his side or Faramir's, the blade about the length of his arm, and Beregond assumed a shorter blade would be more appropriate for fighting in a forest. The hilt looked like ash, carved with flowing writing that Beregond assumed was some form of Elvish. The scabbard, old, worn leather that still looked well looked after, had the same inscription running down the side of it.

A group of soldiers passed close by, bowing low to Faramir, and Beregond noticed the way Belhadron's hand tightened momentarily on the hilt of his sword, and how a tiny sliver of the steel blade became visible above the scabbard.

He would have thought a bit more of it if he did not know that his hand had also crept towards his sword when unfamiliar people came just that bit too close to Faramir for his comfort. Soldiers were fine, soldiers Beregond trusted, because he knew all of them loved Faramir and wouldn't do anything to harm him, but there were others in this city besides soldiers, and he did not know them.

A part of him was looking forwards to leaving the city with his sons and going out to Ithilien with Faramir. There were a lot of ghosts haunting Minas Tirith.

The three of them made their way down to the lower levels of the city without incident, and Faramir led them to the prisons of Minas Tirith. Faramir wrinkled his nose slightly as he ducked under the low door inside, nodding at the guards who suddenly stood to attention. The prisons always did set him on edge slightly, even more so now Faramir could smell the coppery tang of blood from those Easterlings who had been injured.

He made his way to the guard in charge, Beregond and Belhadron behind him. Faramir could visibly see the reaction of the Easterlings who had seen them walk in, and he knew that most of them had their gaze fixed on Belhadron.

"My Lord," said the guard, standing and bowing to Faramir. Beregond had hung back, speaking to one of the guards on the door, and Belhadron was standing still, watching the cells with an unreadable gaze. Faramir nodded to the guard.

"Anything that I need to know of?" he asked, glancing down to where the Easterlings were being held. The guard shook his head.

"Nothing I can think of, my Lord," he said. "They've all been pretty quiet, and we've been careful to make sure they don't talk too much. The seriously wounded have been tended to, but we got your message about leaving the minor injuries for now." The guard's face tightened slightly. "Is there any news of those injured yesterday?"

"They are doing well," said Faramir with a little sympathy in his voice. He recognised the man's face as someone worried over a friend, and knew instantly that the guard had a friend up in the Houses of Healing. "None of them are in serious danger, though it may be a month of two before a few can return to active duty."

The guard nodded, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, my Lord," he said. He gestured at the prisoners. "The one we believe to be their leader is in the first one of the left. He is relatively unhurt, but has been causing a bit of trouble, so we left the shackles on his hands."

As Faramir stood talking to the guard, Belhadron moved towards the cell. The Easterling looked up, and upon seeing the elf, spat at him from the back of the cell, muttering something unintelligible. Belhadron merely tilted his head to one side and allowed the smallest of smiles to play across his face, the corners of his lips turning up.

It had the effect he had been going for. The Easterling snarled at Belhadron, making an aborted move to go towards him. The shackles on his hands clinked on the stone floor, and the man settled back against the wall of the cell, glaring at Belhadron.

Belhadron glanced over as Faramir and Beregond joined him, standing outside the cell. "He is a captain," murmured Belhadron, quiet enough so that the Easterling couldn't hear him. Beregond nodded in agreement, noticing how he was dressed was similar, if he remembered correctly, to the clothing of the captains of the Easterlings a little over a year ago.

"That makes things harder," Faramir said softly. "I doubt he will give up much information freely." It was almost admirable, if it wasn't so frustrating at the same time. Loyalty was loyalty, no matter the side you were fighting on.

"We have to try," murmured Beregond. He nodded at the guard, who handed over a ring of keys. Beregond opened the cell door, swinging it smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The Easterling watched from under tangled hair as, after a brief muttered conversation between the two men and the elf, they stepped into the cell.

0-o-0-o-0

Belhadron stepped in first, well aware of the strumming tension in the Easterling as he stepped closer. He turned around to face Faramir, translating the question he was about to ask in his head into Westron. Faramir stepped into the cell, followed by Beregond, and Belhadron took a few steps back to give them room.

His ears picked up the swish of cloth behind him, and the sound of sudden movement, and instinctively Belhadron began to turn. He heard the clink of metal, and then there was a chain flying up over his head, driven by shackled hands as the Easterling launched himself up.

With one hand, Belhadron reached up, and his fingers tightened on the metal links. Ducking down and to the side, he wrapped one hand in the chain and pulled, spinning the man off balance and onto the floor as his other hand went to the small of his back.

In a heartbeat the Easterling was sprawled on the floor, his hands pulled painfully behind his back by one of Belhadron's hands, tangled in the shackles. Belhadron's knife, the one with the ash handle, was pressing ever so gently into the man's throat.

Faramir watched, seemingly uninterested, as Belhadron jerked the man's head back, a feral snarl coming from the elf's clenched teeth. The Easterling struggled and the knife pressed just that little bit more into the skin of his throat.

Belhadron could feel the rage rolling off of the man at being restrained at knifepoint by an elf, so he shifted slightly to move closer, digging the knife in a little bit more, and pressing one knee down on the back of the man's leg. "Do you think me a fool?" Belhadron hissed, his voice low, every syllable perfectly spoken in a chilly voice in the Easterling's ear.

Despite what Legolas sometimes thought, Belhadron wasn't a complete idiot. He had known perfectly well what would happen if he turned his back on the man. That had sort of been the point. Belhadron had guessed, correctly, that given the opportunity the Easterling would at least attempt to injure him in some way. The man really didn't like elves that much.

The man struggled in Belhadron's grip, and Belhadron pulled him up into more of a sitting position, the knife still at the Easterling's throat. He glanced up at Faramir and nodded.

"Give him a reason, and he will," said Faramir. Playing on the man's hatred and possible fear of elves was not something he overly enjoyed doing, but it was necessary, and probably far kinder than their alternative option.

Belhadron shifted and pulled the man to his feet, slowly taking his knife away from the Easterling's throat. Faramir stepped forwards slightly and nodded at Belhadron, who relinquished his grip and stepped away from the Easterling captain. With exaggerated care he put his knife away in the sheath at the small of his back, and moved away behind Faramir. The man watched as Belhadron, with a small grin, leant back against the bars of the cell.

Belhadron let a small smile play over his lips as he watched the Easterling. A little antagonistic, probably, but then that was the reason he was here. It had been a good idea of Faramir's. Hold a knife to a man's throat and he will just be thinking of how to overcome you. Allow the man to attack first, and then defeat him, and half of your battle will be won before you have really started. Not to mention that Belhadron could see his presence was making the Easterling uneasier by the minute.

"Can you speak Westron?" asked Faramir, and Belhadron's attention flicked back to the Steward. It would be a little bit of a waste if it turned out that none of the men here could speak a language they understood.

"Course I speak Westron," snarled the Easterling. He made a move to step forwards but stopped abruptly when Belhadron straightened from where he was leaning against the cell bars. The Easterling's gaze flickered to where Belhadron's hand had gone behind his back, and he stepped back.

"Would be a bloody fool who didn't learn the tongue of their enemy," said the man with a sneer. "One of our enemies, at least." His eyes flickered back to Belhadron, who grinned at him. The man abruptly looked away.

Faramir nodded. That certainly made things a little easier. He looked back at Beregond and nodded, and Beregond in turn slipped out of the door of the cell, heading for the table where the guards were sat. One of them handed him a rolled up piece of parchment, and they exchanged a few words.

"We'll start small," said Faramir, turning back to the man. "But you will tell us everything you know, one way or another." The Easterling grimaced at Faramir, who merely stared back before speaking again.

"Something simple, at first. What is your name?"

To Be Continued...


	10. Chapter 10

"Why should I tell you?" the Easterling said back instantly. Belhadron shifted slightly, and the man's gaze fell to him. Belhadron repeated the question, and this time the Easterling's reaction was a little more visceral.

The Easterling's startled gaze shot to Belhadron. "Why do you care, filth?" he snarled, spitting on the floor at Belhadron. Belhadron merely smiled lazily, not even moving from the bars he was leaning against.

Faramir stepped forwards, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. "Answer the question," he said, and his voice was steel on a cold morning, sharp and sounding rather deadly. The Easterling held Faramir's gaze for a few seconds, before blinking and looking away.

"Yarban," replied the Easterling. "From the eastern reaches of Khand."

"You fought in the war," stated Faramir. "Not here, though, not outside Minas Tirith. You were fighting for Sauron outside the Black Gate." It was a guess, but an educated guess. Faramir knew that they hadn't even tried to find some of the Easterlings who had fled after the war, but there had been few men that had fought on the Pelennor who had survived it all. From the guarded and slightly surprised look in Yarban's eyes, he was right.

"You were a captain, weren't you?" asked Faramir. "Or even more. But you had command over men. You still do. Those forty or so men in Ithilien, the twenty-six here now, they answer to you, do they not?"

Yarban merely blinked and looked back at them, at least until Belhadron moved his hand ever so slightly towards the small of his back and smiled, a little too much like a wolf for comfort. "They do," he said, a sneer coming across his face. "What of it?"

Faramir glanced around as Beregond slipped back into the cell, a rolled up piece of parchment in his hand. "You have survived together for a year after the war was finished," he said. "And I imagine their loyalty to you is absolute. As is yours to them."

Faramir could see the hesitant fear creeping into Yarban's eyes as the man began to guess at what Faramir was saying.

Beregond stepped forwards, handing the parchment to Faramir. "By all rights, and the laws in Gondor, we could have your men put to death."

Faramir watched closely, and saw the slight widening of Yarban's eyes, the well masked panic that suddenly washed over the Easterling at the threat. "You have already lost some of your men, and it was because of your actions," he said, his voice soft but unyielding. "You could have returned home, and all of them would have been alive. For the sake of the Valar, the King pardoned any man who had fought against us if they promised to lay down their weapons."

Yarban merely snarled at Faramir, who sighed slightly. "If you want the rest of your men to live, then you will answer every question we have truthfully and to the best of your knowledge. Some of your men are badly wounded already. We have treated their wounds, but without our care, they will die. And that blood will be on your hands. Understood?"

Yarban held Faramir's gaze unflinchingly, but Faramir had grown good at reading men and, as he suspected, it was only a few seconds before Yarban's gaze dropped and he reluctantly nodded.

Belhadron could see both Faramir and Beregond hold back a sigh of relief, and he found himself doing the same. His attention turned to Yarban. "How many men were in Ithilien?" he asked.

Yarban growled at him, seemingly not forgetting his hatred of elves, and Belhadron smiled back at him. "I thought you understood our agreement," said Faramir softly. "Talk, or put your men's lives in danger. It's your choice."

Yarban cursed under his breath, and staunchly kept his gaze away from Belhadron as he answered. "Forty three men," he said. "Before you killed seventeen of them. They had families, you know. Wives, children, brothers and sisters. Parents, even, for the younger ones."

"We know," replied Faramir steadily. "And so did the men that your men tried to kill. So did all those men from Gondor, from Rohan, that died outside this city, those that died outside the Black Gate." His voice hardened, and he felt himself take a step forwards. "Don't try and make me feel guilty. It won't work."

Beregond stepped closer to Faramir. "We got all of the men under his command, my Lord," he murmured. "But if there are other groups of Easterlings in Ithilien then they could still know of our presence there yesterday. We have no idea if they were in contact or not."

Faramir nodded, and turned back to Yarban. "How many men are there in Ithilien, besides yours?" he asked. "And don't try and lie, say that you were the only ones. We know there are others."

"There are others," said Yarban reluctantly, his loyalty to those men at war with the need to protect his own. "Others, in Ithilien."

"Where?" asked Belhadron, straightening from his position against the wall. "How many?"

"I don't answer to you, filth," spat Yarban at Belhadron, and it seemed that his anger got the better of him, because he lunged forwards, aiming at Belhadron. He didn't manage one step before there were three swords pointed at him.

Belhadron stepped forwards, his dark brown eyes darkening as the blade of his sword came to rest on Yarban's throat. "Step. Back." The point of the sword pressed into the man's skin, a drop of blood beading on his throat, before rolling slowly down his neck.

"Now." Yarban slowly raised his hands and stepped backwards. Belhadron lowered his sword, shortly followed by Faramir and Beregond, and as the elf stepped back to where he had been leaning against the cell bars, Faramir caught a glimpse of his face. It felt like the temperature had dropped.

Never before had Faramir realised just how old elves were, just how much elves like Belhadron, who had been fighting their bloody war far, far longer than himself, had seen, just how much they had done. At that moment, Belhadron was something ancient, something terrifying.

And then Belhadron relaxed, sheathing his sword, and the image disappeared. Faramir turned his attention back to Yarban, trying to shake the feeling that Belhadron, a few moments ago, would have gladly killed the man in front of them.

"Don't try that again," Faramir said. "Or you might lose a lot more than a drop of blood. Or perhaps your men will lose it instead. Now let's try again. How many more men are in Ithilien?"

Yarban was silent for a good few moments before opening his mouth. Faramir could tell he was recognising the hopelessness of this battle. One way or another, they were going to get the information, and Yarban's loyalty to his men, to those who had been under his care for so long, left him with really only one option. "Three more groups, thirty to forty men in each," he said sullenly. "They're spread out. We kept moving. You won't find them."

"I think we will," said Faramir. He unrolled the piece of parchment in his hands to reveal a map. "On this map, you are going to point out the areas you used to camp, where you found food and water, anywhere you came into contact with men from any other groups."

"If we think you are lying, or withholding any information," said Beregond. "We will prevent any healer from entering here, or anyone from tending to the wounds your men have. Or Belhadron here will remain behind when we leave." The elf in question grinned from where he was once again leaning against the bars of the cell.

Faramir held the map out. He stepped forwards. "Talk."

0-o-0-o-0

"I think we have as much as we are going to get."

Faramir glanced at Beregond, who had murmured the words in his ear. "You think so?" he asked.

"Yarban said it himself," replied Beregond. "The groups move around, though luckily none of them have moved north." Northern Ithilien was more ravaged than the southern parts of the woods, the woods below the road running from Minas Tirith to Minas Morgul. If men wanted to survive in the forests, on their own, they would have been hard pressed to do so in the north.

"Besides," said Beregond. "It has been the half hour that King Elessar gave us."

Faramir nodded. "This will probably be enough information," he said, glancing at the map in his hands. "Will you quickly write down some of the key details? There should be some parchment and ink in here, and I don't want anything to be forgotten by accident."

Beregond nodded. "Of course, my Lord," he said, and ducked out of the cell. Faramir followed and made his way outside.

Belhadron was leaning against the stone wall outside, almost completely still. His eyes flickered over to Faramir as he came out. "We have enough?" he asked quietly.

"I believe so," replied Faramir. Belhadron nodded, his gaze moving past Faramir to the door of the prison. As his head turned, Faramir caught a glimpse of the healing gash on his temple, the shadowy purple bruising surrounding it. "How is your head?" he asked.

Belhadron smiled wryly. "It will heal," he replied. "I have-"

"Had worse?" asked Faramir with a smile of his own. Belhadron paused, and then chuckled.

"Yes," he replied. "I have had worse." He briefly closed his eyes. His head hurt a little, but seeing that the flat of a blade had slammed into it about a day ago, that really wasn't very surprising. The ache would go in an hour or two, and in a few days, the wound would be mostly healed. The same was true with his arm. He had already pulled out the stitches, and the wound would soon heal. Neither injury were going to affect him in a fight.

"Would you have killed him?"

The question sprang from Faramir's mouth without him quite knowing how, and he internally winced as Belhadron fixed his gaze upon him. "Yarban," he clarified. "When he tried to attack you. Did you want to kill him?"

"No."

The answer was swift and firm, and Faramir couldn't help but feel relieved at hearing it. Belhadron frowned slightly, watching Faramir as if to try and gauge his reaction to what he had just said.

"He was just a man," said Belhadron eventually, after a brief silence. He searched for the right words in Westron. "He was…in the wrong army. He does not…need death."

"He does not deserve it," said Faramir softly, and Belhadron nodded.

"Deserve," he murmured. "That is the word. No, he does not deserve death." He may have seemed of a different opinion in the cell, but the thought had always been in his mind. It was just that action on that thought would not have helped them at that time. The point of him being there had been to antagonise that man, and so he had played his part.

There was a lot more to it, though, more that he could not articulate without using Legolas as his translator, for his grasp of Westron was nowhere near good enough.

The man, Yarban, had had parents who had raised him. He had had a childhood, had friends that he had played with. He had been taught to fight by someone, but he had probably also been taught how to ride, how to cook out in the wild, maybe even how to read. Most living things in this world deserved some mercy, because almost nothing was born evil.

Men like Yarban, like those who had fought for Sauron, were still men, at the end of the day. They still had lives beyond who they killed for, and they were still deserving of some compassion. If, in the end, it came down to their life or the life of someone Belhadron was fighting beside, then it was no choice. But whilst there was a choice, he would prefer not to see them dead. There had already been too much killing in this bloody war, and most living things deserved at least some mercy.

Apart from spiders. Those Belhadron would happily kill without another thought, the vile creatures.

Faramir watched the sun, beginning to sink into the shadowed rocks of the mountains behind Minas Tirith. It would be a few hours still before dusk, but it was still past midday, and the shadows on the street were beginning to lengthen.

Belhadron was leant against the wall again, and Faramir noticed that his gaze had fixed onto the small tree growing at the side of the street, one of the few that was planted in the city and had survived the war. Faramir supposed that it made sense, a wood elf seeking out the living things in a city of stone. His gaze flickered away from the elf and back to the door of the prisons, and he wondered.

"What is it?" Belhadron's voice was soft, and his gaze had turned towards Faramir. Faramir paused for a second as the door behind him swung open and Beregond came out, pieces of parchment in his hand.

"Those men…" said Faramir as they turned and began to walk up the streets, heading for the citadel. "Yarban was willing to possibly risk his life just to get a chance to attack you. Mablung mentioned how you and Legolas drew far more attention when those men ambushed you." He paused, trying to find the right words, and Belhadron smiled.

"You want to know why they hate us?" he asked, tripping just a little over the Westron words. Faramir smiled slightly, and nodded. Belhadron seemed to pause, sorting out the words in his head. When he next spoke, his voice was tinged with something part grief, part weary resignation, and possibly a small amount of guilt.

"Because we are the bad tales they tell children at night."

0-o-0-o-0

Over the next few hours, a plan finally began to coalesce into some sort of form. The largest map of Ithilien was spread over the table, weighted down with random items that Aragorn found in his study. A silver candlestick sat on the table opposite an old wooden carving of a horse.

The sun was truly beginning to sink behind the mountains in the west when, eventually, Aragorn nodded in agreement with Faramir. The maps were rolled up, the pieces of parchment now littering the table gathered and piled in the middle. After a brief conversation between Legolas, Belhadron and Aragorn in Sindarin, Belhadron agreed to join Faramir in Ithilien. The captains, having been given orders to issue, bowed and left.

Faramir lingered behind, and as the door swung shut behind the other captains, he turned back to Aragorn. "My Lord," he said. "I think we should tell the people what we are about to do. All of it."

Aragorn looked up. "The last thing I want to do is make people think we are starting a war, Faramir."

"I know," replied Faramir. "But people always talk, and the fewer facts given means only more speculation. If we lose men in Ithilien, if we bring back more dead soldiers when people didn't know there was such a chance in the first place, then we would have a problem."

Aragorn still hesitated, and Legolas spoke up. "You have a point," he said to Faramir. "Aragorn, you have seen what speculation leads to before." He didn't say the unspoken words, that back then Aragorn had not been a part, had only been a mere Ranger watching from the side. Not the King of a people sending their sons and husbands and brothers off to fight again.

"The people are resilient," said Faramir softly. "Tell them that we must fight once again for our peace, and they will bear the extra weight. Do not tell them, and we must face the fires if bodies are brought home."

Aragorn was silent for a moment, before nodding. "You are right." He sighed, and grimaced slightly. "Tell them, then," he said. "Make this official, Faramir, because if it is kept quiet, and some of our men die because of the decisions we have made here, then I do not wish to risk those consequences."

Faramir nodded. "I will," he said. He bowed slightly and left.

Within minutes, soldiers were moving swiftly through the streets, at that speed that definitely did not mean they were rushing, but was still, technically, rushing. Other than those men, the streets were slowly quieting. People were falling back into the weary acceptance of before that was still recent enough to not be strange.

Belhadron and Faramir readied themselves, Faramir going back to the clothes he had worn as a Ranger: a thick leather jerkin and deep green cloak. The silver emblem of the tree of Gondor had been blacked out, along with any buckles, and he carried both his sword and a quiver, with a bow hooked over the back.

Belhadron was dressed in similar greens and browns to Legolas, though the edge of fine mail could be seen under the thick green tunic he wore. His fingers were drumming slightly on the hilt of his sword.

The companies rode off as the sun was setting. Aragorn and Legolas watched them ride out from the courtyard, before returning to the citadel on horseback. People had gathered on the walls of the lower levels of the city to watch the soldiers ride off. There had been some fighting in Ithilien since the War, some conflict when Faramir and Aragorn had led men to cleanse the Morgul Vale, but nothing on this scale for months, and too many people had thought it was over.

And one person stood up at the edge of the courtyard in the citadel, watching the soldiers leave as the dying sun cast their long shadows across the Pelennor.

Eowyn turned her head as she heard soft footfalls behind her, and a small smile flitted across her lips. "My Lady," she said in greetings.

"Eowyn," said Arwen warmly, coming to stand beside her. The wind picked up ever so slightly, and Eowyn pulled the deep blue mantle that Faramir had given her, just after the War, closer around her shoulders.

"You are worried," said Arwen softly, her gaze not turning from the shadows of the men on the Pelennor. Eowyn nodded.

"I do not wish to watch anyone else ride off to battle," she murmured. "And yet I cannot look away."

Arwen paused. "Do you wish to be there with him?" she asked softly. "The Valar know there were many times when I wished I could accompany Aragorn on his journeys." A smile quirked her lips. "Even if I would have only been a hindrance to him."

Eowyn considered saying yes for a moment. It was an attracting idea, riding out with Faramir, knowing where he was, whether he was safe. But as soon as the idea came into her head she realised that it was only that- an idea that she could not follow. Not because she would be such a hindrance, although she probably would, but because she realised that she just didn't want to.

"No," she said after a moment's pause. "I do not wish to go with him. That is no longer who I want to be. I don't need to fight to prove my worth anymore."

Arwen nodded. "Sometimes, I wish so hard that it would just all be over, that we could all be content. Sometimes I catch myself wishing none of it had ever happened in the first place." She sighed softly. "And then I remember that without all of this, I would never have come all this way."

"We lost so much," murmured Eowyn. "It makes it easy to forget what we won."

"I know," said Arwen. The two women found company in each other, and over the past year had become allies in court, and then friends. And as Eowyn watched her husband ride off again into Ithilien, she felt Arwen's hand slip into hers, and she squeezed back gently.

"It is a strange thing," she said softly. "That the certainty of a battle is less worrying than only the possibility of one." She knew that Faramir might not even end up fighting, that the clearing of southern Ithilien could end up being no more than that, a simple cleaning. But she didn't know. She didn't know.

"I will not say that he will return unharmed," said Arwen, still clasping Eowyn's hand. "Because others have offered me such words, and I know that they can become very little very easily. And I will not say do not worry, because you should. But remember, Eowyn, that we are also daughters of the great and strong. And just like them, we have our own minds and worth. " The smile softened on her face. "Even if it is hard to believe at some times."

Eowyn shook her head. "No, you are right," she said. They were iron. She had fought and faced death, had bled and been broken and still was standing. They were both still here, and though they knew it was at the expense of other's lives, and though they both felt the guilt that weighed from that, there was a measure of pride as well.

They had survived. Eowyn felt a measure of pride in what she had done, though it was mixed with a fair part of guilt. She had not bowed down. She had sunken her roots into the rocks and faced whatever the wind had blown at her. And though she had so much more to lose now, it made those things all the more precious.

She gently squeezed Arwen's hand, her gaze moving away from the fast-disappearing shadows on the Pelennor. They had lived in a world of steel, in a world of swords and battles, victories and defeats, shadowy hope that could creep up and strangle them at a moment's notice. That world of steel still lingered. But in it they were, they always had been, iron.

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End line inspired by a quote that I have seen on Tumblr, that I take no credit for- I cannot find the original source.
> 
> 'You think women are weak? Women are forged of iron. My body, it has bled and blazed and broken, and yet it beats on. I am iron. A little rusted, perhaps, but still I endure.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Slight trigger warning for a nightmare at the beginning of this chapter.

He was running. Sprinting through the shadowy trees. Fallen leaves littered the ground, and he could hear them crunching under his feet. For a brief moment, he was confused. It was summer. There shouldn’t be any leaves on the ground.

But the strange thought spiralled away from him as he heard the clash of steel up ahead, and his aching legs yearned to sprint faster, to fly over the ground and reach the battle up ahead. But he could not move any faster, could not speed up what seemed like such a slow run towards where he so desperately needed to be.

His sword was heavy in his hand, and the grip was slick with sweat. He was sure that he shouldn’t be able to hear his heart pound so easily in his ears, but then the sounds of battle became louder, and he burst through the undergrowth to a clearing.

Instantly the surroundings morphed into somewhere he recognised, and his heart jumped into his mouth when he recognised the rocky ground and steep slopes of those lands surrounding the Argonath and Amon Hen.

The Uruk-Hai were there, but this time it had not been the clear call of a horn that had drawn him. He had just known. And now his sword felt so very heavy in his hand as he watched. He couldn’t move his legs, for all he had been running before. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

Still, he started trying to shout, the words hoarse and silent in his mouth, as he watched his friend try and avoid the blows from curved, black scimitars, desperately dance around the looming figures that seemed to grow larger with every second passed.

Aragorn tried to shout again, call out for Legolas to warn him, to tell him to get out, to run, to just run and save himself, but he could only whisper an ineffective warning as an Uruk-Hai stepped up behind Legolas and a scimitar came whistling around.

It was then that his voice was loosened, and Aragorn shouted, screamed Legolas’ name with all the power that he could muster, but he was too late. Legolas spun around at the last minute, his blond hair that Aragorn swore never seemed to get dirty swinging around his shoulders. But he was too late. Legolas’ eyes briefly met with Aragorn’s, his expression wide, before the blond elf jerked forwards.

A large dark stain began to spread across Legolas’ chest as the elf’s eyes widened, still locked onto Aragorn’s. As if a spell broke Aragorn found himself suddenly able to move, but the grief crushed him even as he sprinted across the ground, because he was too late. He was too late.

In front of him Legolas seemed to get further and further away, the blood spreading across his chest. He fell down, like the strings holding him up had just been cut, and Aragorn could hear the sound of what he knew was a lifeless body hitting the floor.

The image of Legolas, lying slumped on the ground, flickered, and then was suddenly replaced with Frodo and Sam lying side by side, just as Aragorn had seen them after the eagles had found them outside Orodruin. But this time, as he reached out a shaking hand towards them, he knew he was too late, and that they were dead.

Frodo and Sam disappeared and Aragorn choked back a pained sound as first Boromir lay there, his eyes staring at the tree canopy, and then Merry and Pippin, staying together even in death. The image flickered again and then it was Gimli lying there, his axe still held in limp fingers. And then Eomer, and Faramir, and then one person after another, again and again. Nausea began to rise in Aragorn’s throat as he just watched everyone who he cared for, who he loved, lie dead in front of him.

It switched back to Legolas, his blond hair still not dirty even with the blood covering his chest. Aragorn couldn’t seem to move from where he had fallen on his knees, couldn’t even speak as Legolas’ eyes stared at nothing.

And then Legolas was gone. Not gone as in dead. Just gone as in gone, not there anymore. Aragorn was left standing on his own in the midst of the woods surrounding Amon Hen.

His gaze flickered over to a patch of the ground that was exactly like all of the other patches of ground that made up the forest floor, but he knew that it was the point where Boromir had died, his chest filled with arrows. That was where Boromir had breathed out his last few words to Aragorn, where Aragorn had promised him he would not fail his people, not fail Gondor.

But now that was making him confused, because hadn’t Legolas died, and not Boromir? Or perhaps both of them had died. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

The trees blurred around him, and then everything turned to grey smoke and fog. Aragorn spun around, but all he could see was in the corner of his eye, flashes of steel swords and armour, the coloured shields of the Rohirrim. All he could hear was the screams and shouts that always accompanied battle, the sound of people dying and people killing other people.

It was strange how they left all of that out of the tales and songs, thought Aragorn absent-mindedly, in the part of his mind that was observing from a distance. The songs don’t mention the screaming of dying men, the horror when you finally stop and realise just what you have done.

Snapshots of images started to filter through the grey fog, too brief and vague for Aragorn to really see, but enough for him to go to his sword, to unsheathe Anduril. The blade gleamed briefly, the runes on the steel standing out in a cold white fire, but soon the fog swallowed up the light, and though Anduril gleamed still, the light couldn’t pierce the smoke.

More splintered imaged filtered through, and Aragorn felt himself fall into the place in his mind that had become so familiar to him, where his focus narrowed to what he had to do to keep himself and those around him alive. A shape moved through the grey fog, and Aragorn tightened his grip around Anduril, the blade almost seeming to leap forwards in his hand.

And then a tight hand closed on his wrist, tugging him away. Aragorn didn’t even think. With his hand still clutching Anduril he lashed out, his other hand tugging away from this person’s hand and reaching for the dagger he had tucked away somewhere. In a moment the dagger was in his hand and he lunged forwards, the small steel blade dimmed by the fog.

A soft voice suddenly pierced through the fog, and Aragorn froze. He recognised that voice. But why was she here? She shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t safe.

He didn’t know exactly what it was, but something, maybe a soft grip on his arm or a voice or just something in his head screaming at him this wasn’t right, jolted him awake. Aragorn sat up with a strangled shout, going from asleep to instantly alert in less than a second. His grip tightened on the arm he was holding onto before suddenly realising he wasn’t in the middle of a battle, but sitting in a bed he didn’t recognise.

“Meleth-nin,” said Arwen softly, sitting up beside him and trying to free her wrist from his hand. “Aragorn.”

Aragorn’s widened, panicked gaze shot to Arwen, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. “We’re in Minas Tirith,” she said clearly, slowly freeing her wrist from his grip and gently rubbing his back. “We’re in Minas Tirith,” she repeated. “It is May, a few weeks from midsummers, and it is a year after the war.”

Aragorn sucked in a deep breath and then sighed heavily, one of his hands reaching around and gently grasping Arwen’s. “Thank you,” he breathed, rubbing at his eyes to get rid of the tear tracks and to try and regain some control. “And I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be,” said Arwen. “You didn’t even wake me,” she said, glancing at the book that had been discarded in a rush when Aragorn had first started hoarsely shouting. A candle was lit on the bedside table. “I was reading.” Aragorn had grown accustomed to such a light; given that elves needed far less sleep than mortals, Arwen needed something to keep her occupied.

“Where were you?” she asked, her voice low. Aragorn sighed, coming to sit up fully in their bed.

“Amon Hen,” he said after a long pause, his gaze not meeting hers. “And then…I don’t know. A lot of places and nowhere at the same time.”

Arwen sighed softly, continuing to rub his back. She blessed the clearer and controlled dreams of the elves that meant she rarely had to suffer through the agony of those splintered, jagged memories that Aragorn had once tried to describe to her.

“I will be fine,” murmured Aragorn to Arwen, running a hand through his tangled hair. He felt hot, and his under tunic was sticking to his body with sweat. He could still feel his heart racing. “I will be fine.”

He ran his hand through his hair again, and breathed out deeply. After a few minutes, his heart had stopped beating so hard that he could actually hear it, and his head felt somewhat clearer. Arwen was sitting behind him, one slender hand on his shoulder.

“Estel,” she said softly. Aragorn wasn’t looking at her, but he could tell that her mouth was open and she was about to say something, but was hesitating. Eventually she sighed slightly.

“Scars mean that you have survived,” she said, her voice strong. “Don’t forget that.”

Aragorn smiled, and turned to face her. He looked weary, but as he smiled something fell away from him and he seemed to straighten, light bleeding back into his gaze. “I know,” he said. “We survived it all. We are still here. That is something to be proud of.” He swiftly kissed Arwen, before standing from the bed and pulling off his light tunic.

“It’s nearly sunrise,” she said as Aragorn shrugged into a tunic and jacket, not bothering to change the soft leggings he was wearing. “Legolas hasn’t seen the sunrise from the top of the citadel, has he?”

Aragorn smiled as he pulled on his boots, well aware of what Arwen was suggesting. “Thank you, meleth,” he said, kissing her on the head. He left silently, and Arwen knew that as soon as he crossed the threshold of their rooms, his face would bear no sign of those things that still haunted all of them in their sleep and waking day.

0-o-0-o-0

Aragorn briefly considered getting into Legolas’ room through the balcony. The thought came to him unannounced, something left over from his childhood days when he would play in the safe haven of Imladris, creep into his brothers’ rooms as soon as the sun rose over the valley. It brought a strange, bittersweet nostalgia with it, the memories of times long gone.

But the thought was soon discarded, and Aragorn left his rooms through the door, nodding at the guards stationed down the hall. The sun was rising, but the ornate windows of the citadel were too high for the first rays to shine through, and still the corridors were fairly dark.

He reached Legolas’ room fairly quickly, and nudged the door open quietly, slipping inside. His footsteps were near silent, even on the stone floors- again, something left over from hide and seek within the grand halls of Imladris.

The room was lightening, the curtains thrown back from across the balcony entrance. As Aragorn stepped in Legolas met his gaze from where he was sitting on the bed. His leg was propped up on a pillow in front of him, and a book was on his lap. A few pieces of parchment were scattered across the covers of the bed, that didn’t look at all slept in.

“You’re early,” said Legolas with a slight smile as Aragorn let the door swing shut behind him. “What is it?”

“Nothing pressing,” said Aragorn, moving into the room and sitting on the end of the bed. “What are you doing?”

Legolas pushed one of the pieces of parchment on top of the bed towards him, and Aragorn picked it up. “What is this?” he asked, his eyes tracking through the neat, flowing script covering the parchment.

Legolas waved the book that was on his lap, and Aragorn noticed another one to the side of the blond elf. “Translating,” he said. “Faramir gave them to me yesterday. He said they have a number of old scrolls and books in Sindarin in the archives, from the earlier days of Gondor. He asked if I could translate some of them into Westron.” Legolas chuckled. “I think he knew I would get a little bored.”

Aragorn smiled, skimming through the parchment in his hand. It was an old account, written by one of the Numenoreans who had returned to Middle Earth when Numenor was destroyed. Aragorn guessed the Sindarin had been recopied many times by the archivists of Minas Tirith, but in the early days of Gondor nobody had seemed to translate it, and then the language was slowly forgotten as Gondor’s might waned.

Legolas sifted through some of the other pieces of parchment before pulling out a piece and handing it to Aragorn. By the amount that was littered around him, it was evident he had hardly slept at all, but Aragorn didn’t mention it.

“Faramir had copied that a while ago from a faded scroll,” said Legolas. “By the looks of it it’s an old record from Elendil’s time. Nothing vitally important, but I thought you would like it.”

Aragorn smiled. “It’s an old description of Gondor, of Isildur and Anarion’s first few years here. Where did Faramir find it?”

Legolas shrugged. “Have you actually been down into the archives here?” he asked. Aragorn had the good graces to look sheepish, and Legolas laughed. “There are thousands upon thousands of scrolls down there, hundreds more books. I’d wager you could construct a complete weekly timeline of Gondor from the beginning of the Third Age to now using the works in there.”

Aragorn shifted, sitting more on the bed than the footrest, and handed the piece of parchment back. “How is the leg?” he asked.

“Healing,” said Legolas, shifting on the bed with a slight grimace. Aragorn spied a tray sitting on the table across the room, and stood up to collect it. Legolas sighed.

“You have an entire house of healers at your call, Aragorn,” he said with a smile. “You don’t have to do this.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I am here. I might as well.” He set the tray down on the bed, careful not to jostle the rolls of white bandages or the pot of salve. He was quiet as he carefully unwrapped the bandages around Legolas’ calf, piling them on the tray.

“It looks good,” murmured Aragorn, examining the stitched gash. He grinned. “You’re going to live, anyway.”

Legolas swatted at him, half-heartedly hitting his shoulder. “I could have told you that without your expertise,” he said, but he was smiling.

Aragorn chuckled, and he shifted the tray to one side as he began to bandage Legolas’ leg. His gaze caught the smouldering remains of the fire in the grate, and a thought of last night occurred to him. He turned to Legolas. “Why does Belhadron not like a roaring fire?”

Legolas hesitated, and Aragorn instantly held up one hand. “My mistake,” he said. “I was prying. Forget it.”

“No, it is alright,” said Legolas with a half smile. “He would probably tell you if asked, but since he is not here, I will. You ought to know, anyway.” He winced slightly as Aragorn pulled the bandages tight around his leg, before settling and continued.

“It’s rather simple, actually,” he said. “Large swathes of Mirkwood were burnt in the fighting by the orcs, as a way to push back the elven lines. Belhadron hasn’t told me much at all of it, but I think he was there, and at the very least he watched Mirkwood burn. At the most…” Legolas sighed. “By the time I returned, any physical scars were long since healed.”

Aragorn nodded. “I would say I am sorry, but there is little point,” he said with a wry smile. “I think we both know how ineffective those words can be.” Legolas chuckled like that, and made the effort to think of other things. He smiled softly, letting Aragorn know the subject was over, and turned to the man.

“Why exactly are you in my rooms before dawn?”

Aragorn hesitated slightly, and then his gaze reluctantly met Legolas’. “I envy Elven dreams,” he murmured. Legolas shifted, nodding slightly in understanding and a little sympathy, and Aragorn shrugged, but a smile was on his face as he put the tray back on the side and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“You’ve been sitting here all night, haven’t you?” he asked with a wry smile. He doubted that Legolas would have slept at all this night. As an elf, he didn’t need to, and Aragorn could guess that sleep would be an elusive thing for him.

Legolas looked slightly sheepish. “Maybe.”

“Your leg will cramp if you do that,” pointed out Aragorn. “You should really keep it moving.”

And that was how the two of them ended up leaning against the wall surrounding the courtyard on top of the citadel, watching the sun slowly rise over the mountains to the east. Two guards were standing either side of the White Tree, and another was at the doors to the citadel, but other than that, they were alone in the courtyard.

Legolas was far more used to the presence of guards than Aragorn. After all, though Aragorn had grown up in Rivendell, he had spent the majority of his life living in the wilds, as a Ranger. Legolas had grown up in the stronghold of the Woodland Realm, the son of the King. He was used to guards standing in the corners of rooms.

They stood together in silence as the sun slowly rose over the Ephel Duath, the long fingers of light reaching down on Ithilien first, and then slowly creeping to Osgiliath. At this moment, Faramir and Belhadron and the rest of the men would be somewhere south of the road running to Minas Morgul. After a few minutes, Legolas jumped up to sit on the top of the wall.

Aragorn winced. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “It’s a very long way down.”

“You know I won’t fall,” said Legolas with a laugh. “It is a flat, level wall, and I am sitting on it. To suggest that I would fall is, quite frankly, an insult to my race.”

Aragorn chuckled, and leant on the wall next to Legolas. “My apologies,” he said. “I forgot how such a thing could be so insulting to a wood elf. After all, it is not like I have ever seen you fall from, say, a balcony?”

Legolas glared pointedly at Aragorn. “That was once. It was wet, and dark. You pushed me.”

“It wasn’t a push,” said Aragorn. “A nudge, at the most. Besides, I have tried such a thing many other times, and it always failed. I have only managed to make you fall once. Let me enjoy my one triumph, mellon-nin.”

Legolas laughed, and then fell silent. His gaze was east, watching the sun, but as Aragorn watched him the elf’s gaze seemed to find the Anduin, the river just beginning to glint in the morning sunlight. Legolas’ gaze followed the Anduin down it’s course, and then strayed further and further south.

Aragorn shifted and gently nudged Legolas. “What is it like?” he asked softly.

Legolas blinked, and pulled his gaze away from the south to look at Aragorn. “What is what like?” he asked, but his tone was guarded, and Aragorn suspected he knew what he meant.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “The sea-longing.” He waved a hand in the general direction of Pelargir and the southern shores of Gondor, as if he could expand on the term by such a gesture. “I want to help, in any way that I can.”

Legolas hesitated, slumping slightly where he sat. A small part of Aragorn’s mind envied the fact that even when the blond elf slumped as if in weariness, he still looked far more elegant than a mortal ever could.

“I don’t know,” said Legolas after a while. He chuckled wryly. “It’s not exactly the easiest thing to describe. It’s not a hurt, as such. It’s not like something is missing, or has been taken away from me. It’s just that I know that I now belong over there. Across the sea.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to say something, and Legolas smiled, and shook his head. “Not yet. Definitely not yet. But it’s still there. And it’s not going to go away.”

“What makes it worse?” asked Aragorn softly. He was not an elf. He had no idea what the sea-longing felt like, what it was like to know that not only where you somewhere where you didn’t truly belong, but that you had a simple enough way to get to that place, if leaving behind everything and everyone you loved was simple.

Legolas chuckled wryly. “I have no idea,” he said. “It’s not like it ever goes away. I guess it becomes more present when the wind is blowing from the south, but honestly, I have no idea, Aragorn. I don’t know.”

Aragorn frowned, and Legolas laughed. “Don’t look so worried,” he said, nudging Aragorn’s shoulder from where he sat on the wall. “I can handle it. I am handling it. It is not too bad. It could have been far worse, and you know it.”

Aragorn did know that. For many of them, it could have been far, far worse. For some of them it had been.

Aragorn had received the news of the Shire from Gandalf about a month ago. It had been saddening to know that the peaceful, somewhat oblivious realm had been torn up so much by Saruman. Aragorn had stood guard over the Shire for so long, watching and protecting its borders, and so he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of guilt, that he was not there to protect them once more, even though he knew he was being unreasonable with himself.

Evidently Legolas’ mind was on the same track, because he turned to Aragorn with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you think Frodo will sail?” he asked softly.

Aragorn nodded. “I think so,” he said. “Such a thing as he did cannot leave you unchanged, and some scars never fully heal.” He sighed. “I just hope he finds peace. He truly deserves it.”

“He does,” said Legolas with a sad smile. “He truly does. The other hobbits will be devastated, though. Especially Sam.”

“Aye,” murmured Aragorn. “Especially Sam. But they will move on, I hope. They can rebuild the Shire. Pippin might come back here for some time in the future. After all, he is still a soldier of Gondor. And Merry is still an Esquire of Rohan as well.”

They would all move on, he hoped. Maybe moving on was the wrong way to put it, because it implied that they would forget, and that they would no longer be reminded of it all, or if they were, that they would not pause and bow their head in grief.

Of course they would. It was absurd to think that someone could simply be forgotten like that, that some things could fade out of their memory over a number of years. It became easier to deal with, sometimes. The pain would become less raw. It would be wrong to call such a thing a burden, such a memory of people lost, but the thought of them wouldn’t weigh so heavily on their minds after a while. But it would never fully vanish.

That wasn’t how grief worked.

Both of them fell silent, their gazes becoming distant as memory surfaced with a bittersweet tang. Legolas’ gaze drifted to Ithilien, the sun beginning to fall on the green of the woods, and despite being surrounded by stone he could feel the quiet murmur of the forest.

“I was meaning to ask,” said Aragorn after a few minutes, his gaze briefly leaving the view and glancing over to Legolas. “Did Gimli ever end up liking Fangorn?”

Legolas chuckled. “It certainly took a little while,” he said. “I think for the first day he was simply humouring me. But he came around to the forest pretty soon, I think.” His smile became softer, his gaze a little distant.

“Ai Aragorn, I had just one taste of the great woods of Beleriand, the wilds of Ossiriand and the deepest reaches of Doriath. A glimpse of what it could have been like!” Legolas turned to look at Aragorn, a smile playing across his face.

“What I might give to have seen it, Aragorn,” he said wistfully. “And not just the height of the Noldorin, not just Menegroth and Gondolin. The pure wilderness of it all, the woods of Doriath and Ossiriand, the river Sirion in full flow, all of the furthest reaches, touched by elven hands but free. Lothlorien was something, Aragorn, Thingol’s kingdom frozen in time, but Fangorn was wild, and untouched save by the darkness that has grown in some places.”

The blond elf sighed softly. “But those places where the darkness was held at bay, where light reached the forest floor and the trees were growing and talking, ai Aragorn, it was as if I had stepped back to Beleriand.” He sighed again, and shook his head. “Now I am more patient with Gimli when he speaks of such things he considers to be marvels.”

Aragorn laughed. “I am glad to see that Gimli did not become too irritated with you and go for his axe. I think the forest would take offense if Gimli threatened you with his axe in their midst.”

“Maybe,” said Legolas with a smile. The two of them stood, or sat, in Legolas’ case, in companionable silence, their gazes drifting out more often than not to Ithilien. The Rangers would be moving through the woods as they were sat here. It was a slightly strange, and unsettling thought, that at this moment they could be fighting in Ithilien and Aragorn would have no idea until messages arrived, which could take days.

The sun had fully risen over the Ephel Duath when Aragorn spoke again. He was still leaning against the wall, half resting on Legolas’ leg where the blond elf was sitting on the wall.

“It’s been a year,” Aragorn said softly. “A little over, actually.” He paused, trying to sift through the things in his mind before saying them. “It feels so strange.”

Legolas hummed in agreement. “I know,” he said. “It feels sometimes like it never happened at all, and at other times like we stepped into a strange dream, and are terrified of waking up to find that all of this, all we paid was just that, a dream.”

Aragorn sighed. “This does all feel like a dream. A good dream, not a bad one, but a dream nonetheless.” He sighed slightly. “It’s strange, though,” he said, his voice quiet. “Our dream is a world where thousands of people died so that we could triumph, where people are left covered in scars, no matter if they were hurt or not. We must be so…damaged, if a good dream is this.”

Everyone who had survived the war bore some of that weight on their shoulders. It was impossible not to. After all, other people had died, and they had stepped over their corpses, in order to win what they all had now. Something like that, as with everything else, could not be easily forgotten.

But Legolas shook his head. “Do not take that guilt upon yourself, Aragorn,” he said, his voice filled with a sudden conviction that had risen as soon as he had heard the grief lacing his friend’s voice. “Every man who fought knew what was at stake. They chose to be soldiers, Aragorn, knowing full well what times they lived in, and what might happen. Do not take away the dignity of that choice.”

Aragorn nodded. “I know,” he said. “Truthfully, I know you are right.” What he didn’t voice, though he suspected Legolas knew full well, was how sometimes he felt like waking up would be a relief.

In some ways it would be easier if this truly was a dream. Before the Quest, before the great battles that heralded the final year of the war against Sauron, things had, in a way, been easier. They knew what they had to do, and they knew that they would most likely, at some point, die from doing it. As Belhadron had put it, they had had a purpose. And now they didn’t, at least not the same purpose they had spent their entire time living.

Both of them stayed quiet for a moment, before seeming to visibly shake off the cobwebs and breathe in again. And as the sun rose over Minas Tirith, glinting off the white stone, the sound of life rising from the streets below, their conversation turned to lighter things, shared memories of the rare moments when they were together and there was quiet, a roaring fire in a grate in Mirkwood, a book under the shade of Rivendell’s trees. But they did not forget, just as anybody who had fought in the war, or had lived through it, forgot. 

Dying in war was remarkably easy. It was surviving the peace that was hard.


	12. Chapter 12

The woods were quiet. Not silent, because ever since the war had ended the birds had begun to return, and were singing now in the trees, but still they were quiet. The air was still, and beginning to warm as the sun rose over the mountains to the east.

Faramir felt his hand tighten a little on the hilt of his sword at the lack of noise. Even after years spent in Ithilien, he was still not wholly used to it. He had grown up in a city, surrounded by people, and though there was a certain peace to the woods of Ithilien it was a peace he was unused to.

Of course, the reason that they were here seemed to remove any feeling of peace that could have existed. It was hard to enjoy the tranquillity of the woods when you knew who was hiding within them.

There was a movement to his left side, and Faramir glanced over to see Beregond come up and stand next to him. "Are we ready?" Faramir asked, his voice soft.

Beregond nodded. "Everyone is ready to move," he said. "I have four men standing by as scouts to move ahead of us, and Belhadron is scouting the area from the trees as we speak."

Faramir glanced behind him, to the thirty men he had with him. They had split up, Mablung and two of the other captains taking eighty men between them to completely encircle the camp of Easterlings that they knew was hidden in the slight valley before them. The remaining four captains had taken the rest of the Rangers, over a hundred of them, down south. They were to work their way up, ensuring no Easterling slipped through the cracks and escaped.

There was a light rustle from above them and then Belhadron dropped straight down from the tree they were standing nearby. Both Beregond and Faramir managed to stop themselves jumping in shock, and turned to the dark-haired elf. Beregond beckoned for the three lieutenants that they had with them to come forwards and listen.

"There is a camp," said Belhadron, picking up his quiver, which he had taken off to make his climb easier, and slipping it over his shoulders again. "There is smoke two furlongs, due East."

Faramir nodded. "That would make sense," he said. "There is a small copse east of here, nestled at the base of a slight hill. It would make a defensible camp." He nodded at the lieutenants. "I want a scouting group of four ready to move out with me and Belhadron. The rest of the men need to be split into two groups. Follow us until I say otherwise, and then we will plan from there." The men nodded, and split off to do as Faramir said. In a few moments every man was up and alert, the four best trackers moving to Faramir.

The company made their way stealthily through the forests, Faramir in front. Belhadron moved silently beside Faramir's shoulder, his sharp eyes not leaving the surrounding forest. The men behind were not able to be so quiet, and the occasional rustle or crack of breaking twigs made everyone wince.

Suddenly Belhadron straightened, and grasped Faramir's arm urgently. He whispered something and signalled for those behind him to get down and stop moving. The men hesitated, unsure of following an elf's commands. After a moment Faramir gestured as well, and then they moved quickly, getting off the slight trail they were walking on and crouching down in the surrounding thickets. In their dark clothing, with the steel blacked out, they weren't visible at a first glance.

Up ahead, Faramir and Beregond both moved off the track, and Belhadron leapt up into the branches of a low hanging tree. The elf all but disappeared from view in the branches, drawing his green-grey cloak around him and stilling.

For a few minutes there was quiet, and the Rangers held back from shifting in the undergrowth and disobeying Faramir's orders. Nothing appeared to be wrong: the woods were quiet, but not silent. They could hear nothing out of the ordinary.

And then they could, the muffled sound of feet on the forest floor reaching the men's ears. They consciously made an effort to not even breathe, and tried to shrink back further into the undergrowth without actually moving.

An Easterling appeared along the trail, a crude bow in his hand and sheaf of arrows at his hip. His dark curly hair was pulled back from his face in a rough knot, and Faramir watched from where he was crouched behind the tree Belhadron was sat in. He frowned, watching the Easterling, and his hand crept silently to his sword, but there came an ever so slight movement in the tree above him, and he stilled again.

Faramir watched as Belhadron, ever so slowly, freed his arms from his cloak, shifting his body in a way that somehow made him become even less visible, as if he was moving with the tree. The Easterling slowed in his step slightly, looking down, and Faramir followed his gaze to see the scuffmarks of their tracks.

Belhadron moved up in the branches. Faramir watched as the elf dropped silently, his cloak fanning out around him. The Easterling spun around in shock, but Belhadron moved with him, and before the man could raise the alarm the elf locked his arm around the Easterling's throat, preventing him from shouting out.

The man struggled, twisting and writhing in Belhadron's grip, and his struggles tripped the elf, both of them falling to the floor. The man reached up, clawing desperately at Belhadron's arm and face, but Belhadron merely tilted his head out of the way and held on, cutting of the Easterling's air supply.

Faramir rose from where he was crouched as the Easterling stilled. He stepped out onto the track with Beregond behind him as Belhadron paused, removing his arm from the man's neck. Belhadron pushed the Easterling off of him, and Faramir offered a hand. The elf grinned slightly as he accepted it and Faramir pulled him to his feet.

"He is not dead," Belhadron murmured to Faramir as Faramir signalled for the men to rise from their cover. Beregond crouched down and pressed two fingers under the man's jaw, nodding to Faramir in confirmation. Belhadron resisted the urge to roll his eyes slightly. He hadn't even gone for the knife at the small of his back. In all honesty, Legolas should be proud of him for that: the blond elf had always said he was too quick to go for a knife when he didn't need to.

Beregond finished gagging and tying the Easterling up, and hauled him roughly to his feet just as the man started to come round. The man twisted and thrashed in his grip, muffled sounds coming through the gag, and Beregond cursed under his breath, tightening his hold.

Belhadron stepped back as the Easterling all but threw himself to the ground in his attempt to get out of Beregond's grip, and Beregond had to let go or be pulled to the ground himself. The Easterling dove out of his grip and managed two steps forwards before Belhadron innocently caught his leg with his foot and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Belhadron grinned as Beregond stepped up behind the Easterling as he struggled to his feet as hit him soundly around the head, sending him sprawling to the floor yet again. "My mistake," he said with a grin, and Beregond chuckled under his breath, tying the man's hands.

"Get him out of sight," he said softly to two Rangers, and they dragged him away off the trail. Faramir signalled for the four men who were scouting with him and Belhadron to move forwards, and they set off, treading stealthily through the woods. Beregond waited silently for a few moments, watching them go, and then nodded to the Rangers, who sank back down into the undergrowth.

They waited in tense silence for a while, Beregond watching the woods for any sign of movement. A slight rustle had his hand going to the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed when he saw one of the scouts step through the trees, his hood pulled up and a cloth mask hiding most of his face. Faramir followed him, and then the three other men. Belhadron brought up the rear, idly running his hand through the leaves on one side of him.

Faramir nodded at the scouts, and they joined the rest of the men as they moved out into full view. Beregond appeared at his side, and he turned to him. "Twenty-eight of them," he murmured. "We checked the close perimeter, and other than the man we currently have, Belhadron is pretty certain that there is nobody who has left recently. Any who have gotten out Mablung will have picked up."

Beregond nodded, and together he and Faramir ran through a brief plan with the lieutenants. In silence the men moved out, splitting into two groups and heading around to either side of the small valley. Belhadron moved around in front of the group Faramir led, scouting ahead and then doubling back.

The small valley came into view, and the Rangers spread out, surrounding the perimeter of the camp. On Faramir's signal, they surged forwards together.

The Easterlings were taken by surprise, scrambling for their weapons as the Rangers, most of their faces covered by cloth masks, stormed their camp. But the Easterlings had not survived the war, survived Ithilien for a year, to be caught completely unawares, and soon there was fierce fighting within the camp.

Belhadron stayed on the fringes of the camp with his bow, his arrows falling into the battle around him. Mablung's company had come to loosely encircle the camp, a furlong or two out, ensuring no Easterlings slipped past them.

Belhadron's thoughts turned completely back to the battle, and he loosed another arrow, this one burying itself in the calf of an Easterling, sending him howling to his knees, where a Ranger swiftly knocked him unconscious. His shot hadn't killed him, but that had really been the entire point. There had been enough death for him to last a lifetime, and, thought Belhadron with a slight grin as he sent another arrow flying into the fray, elven lifetimes could be rather long. If something didn't kill him at the wrong time.

His arrows were beginning to get noticed, and an Easterling who had shaken off the Ranger fighting him and left him dazed on the floor barrelled towards Belhadron with a wordless shout of rage and defiance. Belhadron went for another arrow, but the man was too close and running too fast at him to get off a shot.

If he had had more time Belhadron would have said something of the inelegance and, frankly, the stupidity of the man's attack. Apparently he thought that blindly charging at an elf was going to work. Belhadron forewent his bow, and merely ducked, spinning quickly out of the way with his hand going to his sword as he moved. He wasn't an idiot, and he knew very well that he should be ready if the man was faster, or better, than he looked.

He wasn't. The man couldn't stop in time to keep Belhadron in view, and the elf came up behind him, using the hilt of his sword to strike the Easterling hard in exactly the right place to send him reeling to the floor, unconscious.

Belhadron momentarily paused, though part of his mind was ever conscious of the battle moving around him. "Rude," he murmured in Sindarin at the unconscious body of the Easterling.

His sword was in his hand now, and so Belhadron moved forwards from the edge of the battle. Faramir was fighting nearby, and Belhadron found himself moving closer to the man, watching his back when Faramir was otherwise distracted. He used mainly the flat of his sword or the hilt, knocking out or disabling any Easterlings rather than killing them.

The battle wound down quickly. One Easterling threw down his weapon and then the rest soon followed, allowing themselves to be pushed down to the floor and their weapons removed. Faramir moved among them, speaking to his men, and Belhadron watched the copse carefully, not putting it past one of the Easterlings to try something even when they were all down on the floor.

Belhadron felt something change in the woods around them, and he paused for a moment, reaching out behind him and placing one hand on the tree trunk behind him. It took a few minutes for him to stretch his senses out through the woods around him, the trees unused to an elven presence, but eventually he found what he was looking for. Thanking the trees under his breath, Belhadron stepped away and found Faramir.

"Mablung is close," he said, the Westron slowly becoming a little easier on his tongue.

"How did you-?" Faramir started, before shaking his head. "Never mind. But thank you." He glanced over his shoulder as Beregond came up to him.

"We have all twenty eight of the men," reported Beregond, stepping out of the way as one of the Rangers pushed an Easterling, his hands tied behind his back and his ankles roped loosely together, past them. "I have men standing by to escort them to the soldiers on the road, and then we can move off once Mablung gets here. He should be moving in now."

"He is, according to Belhadron," replied Faramir. He glanced around, at the Easterlings being corralled in one corner, his Rangers moving with steady efficiency. "We must clear the camp away as best we can. Put out the fire, remove our tracks. Have some men see to it, Beregond, and then we will get as close as we can to where we are meant to be next before nightfall."

Beregond nodded and moved away. Faramir's gaze flitted around the clearing once more, and then fell to the fire smouldering in a ring of rocks. He frowned, and wondered how Belhadron had seen smoke above the trees when the wood was barely burning anymore.

0-o-0-o-0

They moved out after less than an hour. There was a slightly tense moment when one of Mablung's scouts forgot to announce his presence, but Belhadron merely mentioned who was approaching, and the Rangers relaxed, though Faramir caught confused whispers and the word 'magic' being murmured, with perhaps just a little irritation.

Faramir himself was curious, but pushed the matter from his mind as they made to move out. They headed further into Ithilien, the woods slowly becoming thicker. Mablung was with Faramir now, having sent some of his men north with the Easterlings, and the rest with another captain and one of the lieutenants that Faramir had with him further east.

It was only when the sun had already sunk in the sky that they stopped for the night. There wasn't a camp, as such: most of the men had been Rangers at some point and knew full well that the simplest thing to do, when there was no chance of rain, was to merely wrap themselves in their cloaks and use their packs as a pillow.

"I can keep watch," Belhadron said quietly to Faramir as the little light left dimmed even further. The two of them were with Mablung on the edge of their hasty camp, Faramir and Mablung talking softly over the plans for tomorrow. "I do not need to sleep."

Mablung looked up in surprise. "How long can you go without sleep?" he asked, his voice soft. Belhadron shrugged.

"It is…different, for elves," he said with a slight frown. "But I can have seventeen days without proper sleep at the most."

Both Mablung and Faramir looked surprised. "Seventeen days?" asked Faramir. The most he had managed to go without sleep was three and a half days, during some intense fighting where he hadn't had a second to spare. Boromir had eventually forced him to sleep, even if it had only been for a few hours before the orcs started to press their defences again.

Belhadron grinned slightly. "It is an easy thing to forget," he said. Both Faramir and Mablung looked at him a little incredulously, and Belhadron remembered that for mortals it probably wasn't an easy thing to do at all.

The seventeen days had occurred sometime in the chaotic months of the end of the Watchful Peace. For two weeks there had been intense fighting on the southern border, and with a final lull in the waves of orcs, reinforcements managed to push through to those on the front of the assault. Belhadron had been there, watching Legolas' back as usual, and none of the elves there had slept for the entire time they had been on the border. In total, Belhadron thinks they managed to walk into seven trees on the two-day journey back to the stronghold.

Belhadron unbuckled his quiver, shrugging it off his back and leaning it against a tree. The quiver was full, Belhadron having picked up all the arrows he had used earlier. Faramir and Mablung turned to quiet conversation as Belhadron sorted through his arrows, separating out the ones that needed repairing.

Eventually Faramir and Mablung both retired to sleep, and Belhadron adopted the usual position he took when he had been on watch in Mirkwood: cloak drawn about him, his knees held to his chest loosely by his arms, only this time he was on the ground and not in a tree.

It was quiet. It was a good quiet, though, one that did not precede, as quiet often had in Mirkwood, orcs ambushing the patrol or spiders leaping from above or, on one occasion that Belhadron wished he had been there to see, thirteen Dwarves interrupting a feast in the woods. Belhadron gently stretched out his senses amongst the trees, not pushing, just seeing if they would respond at all to his presence. It was slow work, but peaceful.

Belhadron's lips quirked in a smile. Peaceful. That was a word he had not used in a long time.

To Be Continued...


	13. Chapter 13

The woods were dark, only a weak light coming from the waxing moon above the branches. An owl scudded across the sky, and the elf below the boughs watched her pass over, knowing that she was watching him as well, and had, for the moment, decided to ignore him in favour of her hunt. The elf watched her go with a smile.

A slight noise came from behind him, and Belhadron turned his head to see Faramir step silently across the camp, coming to sit by him. Unfolding his legs and stretching them out in front of him, Belhadron looked over at the man.

"Sleep can be elusive," murmured Faramir with a wry smile, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Belhadron. "It is all quiet?"

Belhadron concentrated for a brief moment, before nodding. "There are not Easterlings within…what I can see," he said. "Though deer eat two furlongs north."

Faramir chuckled slightly. "Good," he murmured. He sighed slightly, watching the dark forest by the slight light of the moon. He could see little at all, except the vague outlines of the trees and the sleeping bodies of the Rangers beneath them.

"You know the woods well," said Belhadron softly, his gaze not leaving the surrounding forest. Faramir nodded.

"I was in charge of the Rangers out here for a few years," he said. "We were mainly trying to observe movements of the enemy, know if there were orcs or men threatening Osgiliath and learning as much as we could about their movements and defences. But yes, I know these woods very well by now. "

Belhadron nodded, having spent a lot of time over the years doing the very same in Mirkwood. He glanced around him, at the woods surrounding them. It was quiet, but it was not silent. Belhadron could hear the soft rustle of the trees, the animals on the ground and birds in the branches. The woods felt young, he realised with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, younger than any woods he had ever known. Mirkwood had been dark and old, under the weight of hundreds of years of shadow. Eryn Lasgalen did not have that weight, but had not straightened yet, and the years could still be felt. Ithilien was young, relatively untouched by darkness, and it was a refreshing change.

The two of them sat in silence for a few more minutes, before Faramir looked over at Belhadron. "How long have you known Legolas?" he asked, and Belhadron, to his surprise, chuckled.

"Too many years," he replied with a swift grin. "A lot of my life. I cannot remember…the number." Belhadron's smile softened slightly. "I am his second. He is…I protect him, if I can."

Faramir nodded. "I would have guessed," he said. Belhadron looked at him questioningly, and Faramir elaborated. "When you first came into the city, you were on guard, and standing directly behind Legolas. You looked like it was your job to keep watch on him." He shrugged. "I noticed."

Belhadron inclined his head. "It is a hard thing to not do," he said. "I have used my life-"

"Spent your life," murmured Faramir, and Belhadron chuckled.

"Your tongue is…strange," he said with a smile. "I have spent my life watching the back of Legolas. It is a hard thing to stop, to…" He sighed in frustration. "You know. You know what it is."

Faramir frowned, and Belhadron spoke again. "If you saw me, then I saw you. Legolas said to me of Aragorn, and athelas. I watched you with Aragorn. I know…what it is to…to be…" He growled in frustration, and then said the word slowly in Sindarin, seeing if Faramir recognised in.

Faramir shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Describe it."

Belhadron thought for a while. "Legolas saved my life," he said. "Aragorn saved your life. We are…" He sighed.

"Grateful?" asked Faramir. Belhadron shook his head.

"More. More than grateful."

"In debt?" Belhadron nodded suddenly, a grin coming across his face at managing to find the word.

"In debt," he repeated. "I know what it is to be in debt."

Faramir nodded, falling silent. It had been over a year since the day that Osgiliath had finally fallen, since that rout that had ended with a Southron dart in his shoulder, and still he felt indebted to the King for what he had done, for saving him.

"How did Legolas save your life?"

Belhadron, to Faramir's surprise, laughed at the question. "It is long," he said with a chuckle. "I cannot…my Westron is not good to speak of it. Legolas will say. But I hated him for it." He had, initially, been furious with Legolas for pushing him out of the way of an oncoming arrow and taking it in his own shoulder, and he had hardly known the blond elf, only as his Prince and someone he had trained beside for a short time.

But that was a story for another time, and Belhadron would not be able to tell Faramir the entirety of it with his limited grasp of the Westron tongue. "You hated him?" asked Faramir with a low chuckle. "What changed your mind?"

"He was stubborn," said Belhadron with a smile. Faramir chuckled at that, and Belhadron looked over at him, the corners of his mouth turned up and looking absolutely nothing like the deadly and slightly scary warrior he could be at times.

Faramir suddenly realised where he recognised the look on Belhadron's face. He had seen it on Boromir, when his brother had let down his guard occasionally. His smile dimmed, and Belhadron frowned slightly. "What is it?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Faramir shook his head with a wry and bitter smile. "You reminded me of my brother for a moment," he said. "Boromir. I don't know if…"

"Legolas spoke of it," Belhadron said. "He was a good man." He winced as he said it, knowing that words like that meant little, even less than words such as 'I'm sorry' which lost all meaning after a while. But Legolas had spoken highly of Boromir, of the man's courage, and courage in the face of inevitable defeat and hopelessness was something Belhadron respected immensely.

Faramir sighed. "He was headstrong and stubborn and foolhardy," he said with a smile. "But when it mattered, he was my brother, and I loved him for it." He leant back slightly and tipped his head back, looking up at the branches above them. "But he died with hope, and at least that hope has been fulfilled." He looked over at Belhadron. "My apologies," Faramir said softly, suddenly remembering that he had only known this elf for a few days at most, and Belhadron probably did not want to listen to him talk about his dead brother. "I did not mean-"

Belhadron cut him off. "It is not a problem," he said with a small smile. "A lot of people died. We do not forget."

Faramir paused for a moment, and then smiled, exhaling sharply with a shrug. "You are right," he said softly. The two of them fell silent, the quiet of the woods around them punctuated only by the soft sound of trees shifting in the slight breeze, and the occasional movement from the Rangers sleeping behind them.

Belhadron hummed slightly under his breath, before opening his mouth and beginning to murmur a soft song, the words too quiet for Faramir to hear, even if he could understand them. Around them everything seemed to still slightly, even the rustle of the trees, as if they were listening.

Belhadron shifted slightly beside him, and Faramir looked over to see him reaching up with one hand, fingers outstretched. A few moments later he heard the scurrying of clawed feet, and then could just see the movement of a squirrel running down the trunk of the tree Belhadron was leaning against.

Faramir watched as the elf laughed softly, his hand staying completely still as the squirrel edged towards it. Belhadron murmured under his breath, a few lyrical words that Faramir wished he could understand, and the squirrel closed the distance between itself and Belhadron's hand, touching its cheek to the elf's finger.

Belhadron laughed lightly again, and said something directed at the squirrel in the same flowing tongue. For a few moments they stayed like that, the squirrel just touching Belhadron's outstretched hand, and then the creature turned and ran back up the tree. Belhadron lowered his hand, and his gaze turned to Faramir.

"What?" he asked with a light grin. Faramir shook his head.

"How does it work?" he asked, his curiosity awakening once more. Belhadron had been able to tell Mablung was coming when Faramir was pretty sure there was no way the elf could have heard the movement of the Rangers from five furlongs away, and just now Faramir had watched a wild animal approach the elf with nothing but curiosity. He was willing to bet that Belhadron had known the smoke from the camp was there from something other than what he saw, as well.

"Is it some kind of magic?" he asked.

Belhadron frowned. "I do not know that word," he said. "What is it?"

Faramir opened his mouth, and then paused, trying to work out how to describe what magic was. Eventually he managed a fair enough description, and Belhadron nodded, saying the word in Sindarin, for such a word did not exist in Silvan at all. He suddenly laughed, quietly, but with a wry grin on his face.

"There is no magic," he said softly. "It does not…exist?" He frowned, unsure whether he had the right word, and Faramir nodded.

"Exist, aye," he said. "But still, there is something. I have read the lore that Gondor knows, and I know how elves are…close, for lack of a better word, to the rest of the world, but there is some type of magic there. We mortals cannot do the things that you can."

Belhadron shook his head. "It is not…magic," he said, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. "You know the world…how it was born?"

Faramir nodded. "A song sung by the Valar," he said. "A song that the lore says you can hear, if I am right." Gondor was a learned city, had been even more so in the past, and still the archives had tales of Illuvatar and the Valar if you knew where to look. The belief of how the world began was widely known amongst the people of the city.

Belhadron nodded. "There is a song," he said softly. "In all the trees, the mountains, all the streams and rivers. Every…" he sighed in frustration, and looked at Faramir. "Birds, horses, wolves…"

"Creatures?" asked Faramir, and Belhadron nodded.

"Every creature," he said, his gaze drifting to the canopy above them. "All I do is listen, and sometimes sing back."

0-o-0-o-0

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Legolas laughed lightly as they walked through the streets of Minas Tirith towards the lower levels. "You have asked that already," he said. "It has been a week, and my leg is good enough for sparring."

Aragorn sighed slightly. "Are you-?"

"You looked at the wound only a few minutes ago," said Legolas. "When I first asked. You said it was fine. You are the healer, mellon-nin, not me, and so I will simply have to trust your initial judgement." He reached up and shifted his cloak across his shoulders, tugging slightly at the strap holding his quiver in place.

Aragorn chuckled. He was ready to press Legolas further, worried a little about the elf's injured leg standing up against sparring, but then he noticed Legolas' slightly distracted gaze, and he knew that sparring could act as a rather good distraction from most things. He gently bumped shoulders with the elf.

"It's been a week," he said softly, stepping out of the way of a small group of soldiers walking up the street, who bowed to him as they passed. "Faramir will return in the next few days. Every message we've had through from Osgiliath has been good news."

Legolas smiled slightly, the corners of his lips turning up. "I know," he said. "But I still do not like it. I am used to Belhadron standing at my shoulder, not leagues away." He chuckled. "I am still not quite convinced that he has not actually been working for my father all this time. I asked him once, and he never actually denied it, merely switched the subject."

"I would not put it past Thranduil," said Aragorn with a smile. "But Belhadron is at home in somewhere like Ithilien. He will like it, I think."

"He will," said Legolas. "I think, after everything that happened in Mirkwood, the forests feel old. And I know that many are becoming a little tired, after so much war. Ithilien is young, and whilst not unscathed, has not lived under the shadow like Mirkwood did for so many years. It could work, Aragorn. It could work very well."

They stepped through a gate and down onto the second level of the city. It was past dawn, and the streets were busy, small markets and stalls lining the paved road. Legolas had flicked the hood of his cloak up to avoid too much attention, and the two of them walked down the street. The people who noticed that the man dressed in dark clothing and a leather overcoat with a grey cloak over his shoulders was in fact their King bowed low to him, and the murmurs spread quickly enough that Legolas, with a resigned smile at Aragorn, pulled back the hood of his cloak and tucked his blond hair behind one pointed ear.

"I don't think I will ever get used to this," said Aragorn with a wry smile as a group of men, from the looks of it soldiers off duty, bowed to him and Legolas. "I spent the majority of my life as nobody, and now I cannot walk down the street without people bowing."

Legolas chuckled slightly. "I do not know what to say to that," he said. "I grew up with this, if less, and with Belhadron to provide a rather amusing contrast. But I think you will become used to it, in time."

"I hope so," said Aragorn with a small smile. His hand drifted to rest on the hilt of his sword, and the familiar weight of it at his side was reassuring, even if he knew he did not have to use it, not for real.

The streets were busy, though people parted for them, standing to either side of the road. A young child shot out from behind a stall bearing dried cuts of meat, trailing a tattered ribbon in his hand. His legs kept going even when he realised that there were two people standing in his way, and he ran straight into Legolas' legs. The child fell backwards, a whoosh of air escaping his lips before he hit the stone floor.

Legolas and Aragorn both stopped in surprise as the young child promptly screwed up his face and burst into tears, sitting on the stones. Legolas froze slightly, and glanced with wide eyes at Aragorn.

Aragorn merely suppressed a chuckle and crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet so he was on level with the child. "Easy there," he said with a warm smile, picking the young boy up and standing him on his feet. The child had stopped crying in the sense that his mouth was shut, but still tears were coursing down his face.

Aragorn pulled on the cuff of his sleeve, and gently wiped away the tear tracks from the boy's face. "Are you alright?" he asked softly. The child nodded, his lower lip quivering slightly, and Aragorn smiled warmly at him.

There came a hurry of feet and then a woman bustled around the corner. "Halin, what are you-" She broke off upon seeing Aragorn crouched with her son, and a mother's worry and anger flashed across her face as she saw who she perceived as a strange man crouched in front of her son. She made to open her mouth and say something sharp, but then she saw Legolas, blond hair tucked back behind a pointed ear and watching the man crouched with her son with a smile.

Aragorn looked up at her, and the woman's mouth dropped in a gasp before she curtseyed low. "My King," she said in a rush, reaching forwards and scooping up her son. "I am so sorry my Lord, for my son, he's only three and I'm sure he didn't mean to-"

"Peace," said Aragorn, standing up with a soft smile. "Your son did nothing wrong." He bowed slightly to her. "Have a good day, my Lady," he said softly, and the woman curtseyed low, stepping out of their way. Legolas jogged a few steps to catch up with Aragorn.

"Since when were you so comfortable with young children?" he asked Aragorn, a small smile playing on his face. Aragorn shrugged slightly, with an answering smile, and looked over at Legolas.

"Since when were you not?" he asked. "You must have been around children at some point."

"Not much," replied Legolas. "Belhadron had a younger brother, but he was grown before I came to know Belhadron." There had been elven children in Mirkwood, but never many, and Legolas had tended to stay away from them, his duties almost never bringing him into contact with them. There had been many children in the aftermath of Smaug's attack on Laketown, but again, Legolas' part in that whole affair had merely been to fight, and he had never spoken to any of the children. Aragorn frowned in confusion.

"I thought you knew him all your life?" he asked.

Legolas shook his head. "I knew of him, as we trained together for a little while. But I didn't know him well until we were both over one hundred years old, I think."

"What happened?" asked Aragorn curiously. He knew that Belhadron was Legolas' most trusted friend in Mirkwood, had been for hundreds of years, as well as the blond elf's second and valued captain. He had just assumed they had known each other all their lives.

"I took an arrow meant for him, he hated me for it and I made him my second," said Legolas with a grin. Aragorn raised one eyebrow, and the elf laughed. "I speak the truth!" he said. "I knocked him out of the way of an orc's arrow, one of the few times we patrolled together, and took it in my shoulder. Belhadron was angry with me for doing so, and after about a few days I made him my second, because I knew he would not hesitate to tell me if I was wrong. From there, it was only a few months before he decided he would be at my shoulder most of the time."

"Why did you take an arrow for him?" asked Aragorn. "And why was he angry at you for it?"

Legolas shook his head. "I took an arrow for him because he would have been killed, and at the angle the orc was shooting, I knew I had a good chance at just being injured."

He chuckled. "As for why he was angry, I think it was because he thought I was being stupid, risking my life unnecessarily, and because I hadn't given him a chance to defend himself or do anything, just pushed him out of the way." He laughed. "I like to think he was worried as well, given the amount of times he came to check on me in the healing wards."

"Worried for you, or for what Thranduil would do to him?" asked Aragorn with a wry smile. Legolas laughed again, a merry sound, and Aragorn could see people's heads turning slightly to watch the elf.

"Probably fear of what my father might do, though he would never actually do anything. And after a little while he knew Thranduil well enough to know he is not all that he appears to be, not when he lets his guard down." Though it had been very entertaining whenever Belhadron was called in front of the King in the early years of their friendship, and Legolas had spent more than a few council meetings trying not to laugh as Belhadron stood uncomfortably behind his chair as his second.

They reached the ground level of the city, and Aragorn led Legolas through the winding streets and the city to the training grounds. An old grizzled man walked in amongst a group of younger boys, moving back and forth across the patched grass field. Wooden sticks clashed together, accompanied by the scuffing of feet and the occasional shout of their instructor.

Aragorn removed his cloak and let it fall to the ground, having care that the leaf brooch remained pinned to the grey fabric. Legolas did the same, placing his quiver on top, and removed his two hunting knives, spinning them idly in his hands as he watched the boys train.

"Geron will keep them away from us if we spar," said Aragorn, unsheathing the sword at his side. It was not Anduril, for the blade was a little too precious for merely sparring. This was the sword he had worn at his side for all the years that he was a Ranger, the hilt worn and moulded to his hand. "Are you sure that your leg will hold up?"

Legolas smiled wryly. "Aragorn, at the end of the Watchful Peace Belhadron and I rode out to the border with a group of ten elves, and between us we had one hundred and thirty two stitches holding various wounds together." Aragorn looked disbelieving, and Legolas nodded. "We counted. I can safely spar with a gash in my leg that is almost healed."

Aragorn shrugged slightly. "It's your leg," he murmured, but a swift grin came across his face, and he rolled his shoulders, loosening them up as they stepped onto the grass. Aragorn saw Geron, the training master, look their way and he nodded at him, raising his sword slightly. Geron easily guessed what they were doing and nodded, turning his attention back to the boys in front of him once more.

Legolas spun the knives in his hands once more, before stepping out onto the grass with Aragorn. He tested his wounded leg, jumping on it a few times, thrusting forwards with one knife and his weight on the leg. "It's fine," he said with a smile.

Aragorn nodded, and the two of them began to slowly circle each other, trading blows. This was merely a warm up, loosening their muscles. Legolas thrust with both his knives, and Aragorn parried the blow and spun them away with his sword. They stepped around each other again, and this time it was Aragorn that lunged forwards, Legolas crossing his knives and catching the blade between them.

After a few minutes they pulled back from each other, Legolas sheathing his knives at his belt to plait again one of the braids in his hair that had come loose. Aragorn, having shed his leather coat, stepped forwards.

"Here, let me," he said, and Legolas tilted his head to one side to allow Aragorn to put the braid back in his hair. He chuckled.

"I'm surprised you can still remember how to do these," he said with a smile. Aragorn laughed softly.

"I grew up in Imladris," he said, grinning at fond memories. "If you learn anything from having two elven foster brothers, it is how to braid elven hair." His fingers worked deftly through the long blond hair until he finally tied off the braid at the end. "Ready to go?" he asked.

Legolas nodded, pulling his knives from his belt and stepping further into the middle of the green. "We may have an audience," he said with a merry smile, his eyes glancing to the group of young boys who were now watching them more than each other or even Geron. It was a feat indeed to draw their attention from the training master, because Aragorn knew his reputation. It reminded him of Glorfindel, a little, when the elf-lord had taught him. He had been terrified.

"We must not disappoint, then," he said to Legolas with a wry smile. The two of them circled each other for a few moments, each of them feinting forwards and then stepping back once more.

Legolas lunged forwards, and the dance began.


	14. Chapter 14

Legolas rushed forwards first, and the sound of steel on steel filled the yard as he thrust forwards with one knife, the other moving to Aragorn's side. Aragorn twisted and deflected the blow, spinning Legolas' knife away with his blade and dodging to avoid the blade going for his side. He returned with a sideways sweep of his sword, twisting so that it was the flat of the blade that would connect with Legolas' side, and not the edge.

Legolas twisted sideways, moving with the movement of the blade. He used his knives to catch Aragorn's blade and pushed it away from them, sending Aragorn momentarily off balance. Aragorn took a few steps back, and they warily circled each other again.

"How long has it been since we last did this?" Legolas asked with a smile, darting forwards and exchanging a few brief blows with Aragorn before he stepped back again.

Aragorn chuckled. "A long time," he said, feinting with his sword and attempting to disarm Legolas. Legolas' grip loosened on one of his knives as Aragorn's blade pushed it away, but he had not been fighting for hundreds of years to lose his blade that easily. He ducked, sliding out of Aragorn's grip and letting his smaller knife skim along the edge of Aragorn's blade.

At the same time, though, Aragorn kicked out and hooked his foot around Legolas' leg. He tugged and, whilst it was not enough to bring Legolas to the ground, it was enough to unbalance the elf. Aragorn's sword came around to Legolas' neck, and it was only Legolas' elven reflexes that allowed him to slip his knives in between the blade and his neck.

For a brief pause they remained there, Legolas pushing Aragorn's blade away from his neck, Aragorn applying just enough pressure to keep it there. Legolas shifted his weight slightly, and then suddenly threw himself back, flicking out his wrists and twisting desperately to one side to avoid the point of Aragorn's sword. He hit the ground, his elven reflexes not quite enough to allow him to remain on his feet after that.

The point of Aragorn's sword came whistling down and Legolas rolled out of the way, coming up onto one knee and blocking Aragorn's blow with his knives. For a few moments they stood like that, Aragorn's weight on his sword that was only being stilled by the crossed blades of Legolas' knives. Then Legolas suddenly let his knives slip away, throwing himself to the side as Aragorn's sword came down, Aragorn not expecting the resistance to suddenly vanish.

The blond elf rose back to his feet with a swift grin, and spun his knives in his hand. "Your brothers may have taught you that trick, but they taught it to me first." Aragorn chuckled, and merely adjusted the grip on the hilt of his blade.

"Again?" he asked, watching as Legolas put weight on his wounded leg. The elf nodded, and slid smoothly into a ready position, both knives poised.

This time it was Aragorn who made the first move, bringing his blade around in a scything sweep at Legolas' side. Legolas deflected the blow and darted forwards, moving inside Aragorn's guard and attempting to get a knife to his neck. Aragorn stepped backwards quickly, leaning back out of the range of Legolas' shorter knives, and the fight began anew.

After a series of thrusts and parries that grew more and more intense each time, Legolas stepped back slightly, spinning his knives in his hands once again. Both of them were breathing hard, and Aragorn could feel his undertunic beginning to stick to his back.

Legolas darted forwards, knives poised, and Aragorn parried the blow, swiftly turning as Legolas moved around him. That was one problem with sparring with an elf, especially one from the Woodland Realm: they were faster than Aragorn could ever hope to be.

Aragorn parried another blow and twisted, but Legolas was already ahead of him, and suddenly one of Legolas' knives was at Aragorn's throat, hovering close to the skin.

For most sparring sessions, this would have been the point where Aragorn would have dropped his sword and admitted defeat. But he had not passed through years in the wilderness and a war to be outwitted by one elf, so he barely paused when he saw the elegant blade of the knife at his throat.

Aragorn pushed his weight back and ducked down, whilst his right hand swept the flat of his blade sideways, catching Legolas' legs. With his left hand he reached up and grabbed Legolas' upper arm. In one swift movement, Aragorn threw the blond elf over his shoulder.

Legolas twisted in the air, and managed to land on his back, both knives still in his hands, but he stilled when Aragorn put one foot on his chest and rested the point of his sword on the elf's throat.

"I win," he said with a grin. "Drop your knives."

Legolas raised one eyebrow, but eventually sighed and placed his knives on the ground. "Fine, you win," he said. He swatted at Aragorn's foot half-heartedly. "Now let me up. I happen to like this tunic, and I don't want you getting dust on it."

Aragorn laughed, and took a step back, sheathing his sword. Legolas sat up with a slight groan; being thrown over someone's shoulder hurt, even if Aragorn had only used enough force to get him on the ground. Aragorn held out a hand and Legolas grabbed it, pulling himself to his feet.

"You didn't learn that from my brothers," Legolas said with a chuckle, bending down and picking up his knives.

"The Dunedain," said Aragorn, wiping down his sword and pulling off his overtunic, leaving him in just leggings and a light blue tunic that was sticking to his back with sweat. "Elladan and Elrohir taught me some hand to hand combat, but they were the ones to teach me things like that."

Legolas laughed again, dusting himself off. "It was certainly unexpected," he said. "I'm just glad you didn't accidentally break my shoulder or something similar."

"Let me guess," Aragorn said. "Belhadron?"

"Belhadron," Legolas confirmed. "We were sparring, fairly recently after I made him my second, and he tripped me. I fell down wrong and managed to throw my shoulder out of its socket." Legolas chuckled. "He was incredibly guilty about it, but I've managed to repay the favour over the years."

Aragorn chuckled. "If the stories I have heard from my brothers are anything to judge by, I am sure you have." He ran his hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face.

Legolas grinned, wiping down his knives with the corner of his tunic and then balancing them in his hands. He knew there was little chance of him being able to defeat Aragorn and get him on the floor, unless he resorted to what Aragorn would undoubtedly call trickery. The man was a better swordsman than he was, and had always favoured the blade, whereas Legolas' knives were just a back up for when he ran out of arrows.

Aragorn unsheathed his sword. "Have you had enough for the day?" he asked.

Legolas grinned. "Of course not," he replied, spinning his knives in his hands.

Aragorn held up one hand. "Wait," he said with a smile. "I shall make it fairer; ask Geron if he has a good pair of hunting knives. I haven't fought with such blades for a long while." He turned to look over to where the boys were training, and chuckled slightly.

"It seems that we had quite an audience," he said with a smile. The boys were all standing watching, Geron at one side. As both Legolas and Aragorn looked towards them the boys began to shift nervously and then turn away.

Aragorn looked at the small pile of their cloaks, his overtunic and Legolas' bow and quiver. "I have an idea," he said with a smile.

Legolas sighed. "Of course you do. What is it?"

0-o-0-o-0

The boys had gathered to one side of the training fields, their sparring swords forgotten by their sides. In front of them stood their King, idly tossing a small clay ball from a bag he held from one hand to the other. Geron stood off to the other side, a similar leather bag in his hands.

Legolas finished adjusting his quiver, pulling the strap tight across his chest. He reached swiftly for an arrow, checking the quiver was where he wanted it, before dropping his hands to his sides and nodding at Aragorn.

"Ready?" asked Aragorn, looking first at Legolas, and then at Geron. His gaze moved over to the boys standing safely to one side. "Watch closely," he said.

Legolas' hand twitched around his bow, but other than that, he stood perfectly still, his gaze on the clay ball in Aragorn's hand. Aragorn tossed it from hand to hand a few times, and then, without any warning, suddenly threw it high in the air.

Instantly Legolas moved, stepping back to keep the ball in sight whilst one hand went back to his quiver. In a smooth movement he pulled an arrow free, nocked it to his bow, sighted and loosed the arrow. There was a sharp snick, and then small pieces of clay rained from the sky.

Legolas chuckled slightly at some of the faces of the boys watching. He turned back to Aragorn, who had another ball in his hands. Aragorn grinned.

Soon one ball after another was flying through the air, some from Aragorn, some from Geron on the other side of Legolas. At the most, there were about three in the air at the same time. Nevertheless, each one burst mid flight, shattering into fragments as another of Legolas' arrows pierced it. The elf was constantly moving, reaching back again and again for an arrow, until eventually his quiver ran empty.

"Hold," called Legolas, and Aragorn stopped, dropping the ball in his hand back into the now nearly empty bag. He walked over to Legolas as the blond elf ran his hand down the string of his bow, smoothing out any quirks that may have appeared.

"I have not done such a thing in years," said Legolas with a grin as he shouldered his bow, the string coming to rest over his chest. Behind them, the boys moved off as Geron shouted something, and soon the clatter of sparring swords could be heard once more. "Belhadron just used to throw the clay balls at my head."

"Of course he did," said Aragorn with a wry smile. His gaze softened. "You trust him with your life," he said quietly, noting the expression on Legolas' face.

Legolas raised one eyebrow. "I trust a lot of people with my life," he said with a dry grin. "It was sort of necessary in Mirkwood, mellon-nin." After all, they had been at what was basically war for hundreds of years before the actual War.

Aragorn was still looking questioningly at him, and so Legolas smiled softly and elaborated. "I trust a lot of people with my life," he said softly. "I trust very few people, namely Belhadron, my father, Gimli and you, Aragorn, with…with everything else."

0-o-0-o-0

"We have five minutes, and then our cover is gone."

The words were murmured in Faramir's ear as he crouched in the thickets surrounding the final camp in Ithilien. They had been in the forests for about a week now, and so far Yarban's information had held true, and three of the four groups of men had been quickly captured and sent back to Minas Tirith. Just one camp was left, something those already captured, who had actually talked, had confirmed. And Faramir currently had thirty nine men surrounding it.

It wasn't enough. Nine men had already returned to the city after sustaining wounds in the fighting when bringing in the Easterlings, though nothing had been too serious. But there were fifty-two men in the camp in front of them by Belhadron's count, and Faramir had seen how vicious they could be when they thought they were cornered. If they hadn't been fighting his men, it would have been something to respect.

"My Lord?"

Faramir turned his head to see Beregond crouched beside him. "I know," he said softly. "But remain in position for now. We don't have enough men for a smooth capture." He was holding out hope that Mablung was close enough to come and reinforce their position. He turned his head as their was a slight rustle behind him and then Belhadron came into view.

"Can you locate Mablung in the woods?" Faramir asked, his voice soft. Belhadron shook his head.

"The woods are not used to me," he said. "It takes too much time. But he is not very near, I know that." His dark eyes scanned the camp they were watching, and his hand twitched back to his bow. "Our…cover will go soon."

Faramir nodded. The men in the camp were beginning to pack up. Soon they would leave, and run straight into the Rangers surrounding them. Either Faramir issued the command to head in, and risk his men, or he told his Rangers to retreat and hide, letting the Easterlings pass, and risk loosing the last group in Ithilien.

He gritted his teeth, and then nodded. "We'll head in now," he said softly. "Spread the word, and then wait for my command." Beregond nodded, and turned to signal to the Ranger next to him. For a tense moment there was complete silence, and then Faramir pursed his lips and let out a high whistle.

Rangers erupted from the undergrowth, swords in hands, and the Easterlings spun around in surprise. Faramir rose from where he had been crouched and darted forwards as weapons appeared in the Easterlings' hands, and then the clashing sound of steel on steel began to ring out across Ithilien.

An arrow zipped past Faramir's ear, and he jerked sideways to see it bury itself in the thigh of an Easterling in front of him. Belhadron appeared briefly at his side, his bow nocked, and grinned swiftly at Faramir before releasing another arrow and moving away to the edges of the battle, where he could get clearer shots.

An Easterling charged him and Faramir raised his sword, parrying the first blow and sliding under the Easterling's broadsword. He turned and twisted his wrist, and the edge of his sword sliced through the Easterling's shoulder. The man howled in pain, and Faramir struck his legs out from underneath him, causing him to fall to the floor. One more blow, this time to the Easterling's head, and the man was knocked out.

The fighting continued around him, the Easterlings quickly getting over their surprise and launching themselves at the Rangers. Yet the Rangers had all fought through the war, had been fighting for years, and though a large part of some of their survival might be down to luck, as it so often could be, Faramir trusted them.

He continued to fight, watching his men out of the corners of his eyes when he had the chance. Slowly the Easterlings were being subdued, and Faramir felt a little bit of pride when he saw the number of Easterlings unconscious on the floor.

But he barely had time to think such things before he was drawn back into the fight, parrying a fierce blow that nearly sent him to his knees, before he pushed back and pushed the Easterling's sword away from him. The Easterling struck back with a series of intense thrusts, and the power behind them made Faramir unable to do anything else but parry and back up, waiting for an opportunity.

The Easterling growled something unintelligible and swung his sword towards Faramir's head, the edge of the blade whistling through the air. Faramir ducked, and twisted his sword, parrying the blow. In a move he had known since he was young, he stepped inside the Easterling's guard, and a few moments later the man's sword was lying on the ground. A well-placed blow from the hilt of Faramir's sword sent the Easterling toppling to join his sword.

Faramir paused briefly, breathing hard, and adjusted the grip on his sword. The battle was raging fiercely around him, and all too soon he was drawn back in. Belhadron appeared at his side at one point, his quiver empty and his sword in his hand. Beregond was never far from him, and Faramir got the feeling that the man was watching him whenever he had the chance.

He intercepted an Easterling who had gotten inside the guard of another Ranger and forced the blade away from the man. The Ranger scrambled to his feet in a hurry, nodding his thanks at Faramir. Faramir barely noticed, busy parrying another blow from the Easterling. The man held an orcish sword, the blade dulled and rusted with dried blood and other things Faramir didn't recognise, and didn't particularly want to know about.

The Easterling was faster than most, and Faramir felt a small quell of worry as he tried to move around him and inside his guard, only to find himself blocked by the man's blade already there. He moved again, feinting left and then allowing his sword to swing around and slice to the right, aiming for the Easterling's unprotected side. The Easterling wasn't fast enough for that, and Faramir's blade cut into his side before the man responded and twisted out of the way, bringing his sword down towards Faramir's arm.

Faramir jerked his sword back, narrowly avoiding the blade that was coming down on his arm. He parried the blow and twisted his wrist, the Easterling's blade sliding along his, Faramir forcing it down. The Easterling growled and with his other hand, swung his fist at Faramir's head. Faramir jerked back and avoided the worst of the blow, but he lost his hold over the man's sword and the Easterling jerked it free.

Around him Faramir could sense that the battle was dying down, some of the Easterlings dead, some subdued and on the floor. The man in front of him thrust forwards again, his blade coming too close to Faramir's side for his liking, and Faramir's full attention turned back to him, stepping swiftly to the side and parrying the blow.

The Easterling seemed to sense as well that his men were losing the fight, and he became more desperate, swinging wildly at Faramir and pushing the man back across the campsite. Faramir could barely do anything other than duck and step around the blows as they came.

He was being backed up into a corner and he knew it. Faramir ducked under a blow and managed another blow to the man's side, slicing through the thick leather until he felt the give of flesh beneath his blade. The man grimaced in pain but thrust at Faramir again, the blade twisting close to his neck.

A small part of Faramir idly wondered where Beregond was, but the thought soon vanished from his mind as the Easterling lunged forwards again and he parried the blow, again. Faramir moved quickly and managed to get inside the Easterling's guard, tripping him so he fell down to one knee. Yet as he did so the man struck out, and the flat of his blade caught Faramir around the ankle, unbalancing him. A second strike sent him down to the floor.

Faramir quickly rolled out of the way and came up to one knee just in time to block a ferocious blow from the Easterling. The man, teeth bared in a soundless snarl, leant all of his weight onto his sword, and Faramir felt his arm give slightly against the pressure.

There was a sudden jerk from the Easterling, and then the man toppled forwards. Faramir lunged to one side, pulling his sword out of the way as the Easterling fell to the ground, lifeless. The ash hilt of a knife protruded from his back.

Glancing up, Faramir saw Belhadron standing across the camp, lowering his arm. The elf nodded, a grim smile on his face, before he suddenly turned and slammed the hilt of his sword into an approaching Easterling. The elf, as usual, had drawn plenty of attention from the Easterlings, but seemed unhurt.

There was the pounding of feet from nearby that caught Faramir's attention, and then he turned back, falling back into the familiar rhythm of battle.

To Be Continued...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for minor and original character death and the various things associated with such a death, e.g. blood, etc.

Faramir continued fighting until the Easterlings were finally subdued. The fighting had been more vicious than any other skirmish this week, and Faramir could hear the groans of pain from Easterlings and Rangers alike. He saw Beregond dragging an Easterling from the edges of the camp to the centre, where those alive were being held. His captain nodded at him, handing his man off to someone else and making his way over.

 

“Quite a few are dead,” Beregond said, his voice soft. “And we have injuries of our own. Mablung shouldn’t be far out, though.”

Faramir nodded. “Get the Easterlings who are not hurt to begin digging graves, and treat any wounds as best as you can,” he ordered. “Find out how many of our men are hurt, and whether we’ll need the horses that Mablung has with him. He should be coming in soon. I’ll find Belhadron and see if he can’t tell if he’s nearby.” He tried to push away the lingering feeling that he should have waited for Mablung. Second-guessing his decisions when he had already made them was never a good idea.

Beregond nodded, and turned away. He had only made it a few steps across the campsite when they heard someone shout.

“Faramir!”

Faramir spun on his heels, and his gaze found a familiar figure knelt on the floor. Belhadron was looking his way, and there was someone on the ground in front of him. The elf’s face was smeared with blood, as if he had pulled back his hair with bloody fingertips.

His heart seemed to sigh with resignation and something almost akin to disappointment, and Faramir hurried across the campsite to where Belhadron and another Ranger were crouched. In front of them lay a Ranger, gasping for breath. Belhadron’s hands were pressed down firmly on a balled up piece of cloak over the Ranger’s chest, which was already slick with blood.

“What happened?” asked Faramir, kneeling down beside the Ranger. The man’s eyes flickered over to him, and Faramir recognised the gaze of someone who was desperately trying to keep the pain locked away and keep at bay unconsciousness. It was a well-rehearsed look for many men in Gondor.

Belhadron briefly peeled back the cloak to reveal the stab wound, oozing blood. Faramir grimaced, and then as more blood bubbled from the wound, Belhadron pressed the cloak back in place. The Ranger gasped at the sudden pressure, and then his breath caught in his throat and he began to panic, his body overriding any control he had in a desperate attempt to get air into his lungs.

“Easy,” said Faramir, gently squeezing the man’s shoulder. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Breathe with me.” His voice was low and soft, and the Ranger’s eyes slowly fixed on him as Faramir breathed slowly in and out. He gradually calmed, his breaths coming in short gasps.

The other Ranger, a younger man by the name of Duilin, had hold of the Ranger’s hand with a weak smile whenever the Ranger looked over at him. The Ranger choked again on his breath and Duilin’s hand went white.

“Hey, just breathe,” said Duilin, a small smile being forced onto his face as the Ranger’s head rolled over to look at him. “Just breathe. It will be alright.”

Belhadron looked up at Faramir at those words, and shook his head ever so slightly, his face looking like it was carved from stone. Faramir held back a sigh, and nodded. He slipped off his cloak, bunching it up and putting it under the Ranger’s head.

Faramir had known, anyway. The stab wound was large and bleeding rather heavily, and had undoubtedly caused the man’s lung to collapse. If they were in Minas Tirith, if they were in a clean room with healers, then maybe something could be done, but out in the middle of Ithilien there was little chance. They would do what they could, of course, but there was not much.

Duilin was biting his lip now with the effort of trying to stay calm. Belhadron wordlessly peeled back the cloak, looking at the wound, before pressing the sodden material back to the Ranger’s chest again. At the movement Duilin looked up, and his expression suddenly morphed into something containing hope, if a foolish hope at that.

“Can you do something? Please, can you do something?” he asked Belhadron, his words rushing out all at once. Belhadron frowned, unsure of what he had said, and Faramir spoke.

“Is there anything you can do?” he asked, his voice tired. He already knew the answer.

Belhadron looked back at Duilin and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I cannot.”

“But…” Duilin’s face still contained that treacherous seed of hope, and he gripped the Ranger’s hand tighter. “You’re an elf!” he said, his voice rising in the hopes that a shout could accomplish more. “You have magic. Do something!”

Belhadron shook his head again. “I have no-“ he started to say, but was interrupted by Duilin.

“Of course you do!” he half shouted, his voice thickening with everything he was trying to hold back. “You are an elf! You have to do something!”

“I cannot,” Belhadron said firmly. “I cannot do more than you, or Faramir. I have no magic. I’m sorry.”

“But…you’re an elf!” Duilin’s entire hope seemed to hinge on this fact, and when his expression did not change as Belhadron denied it again, Faramir stepped in.

“There’s nothing more he can do, Duilin,” he said softly. “No more than what any of us can do.” His gaze turned to the Ranger lying in front of them. The cloak under Belhadron’s hands was steadily turning a dark red. “We’ll get you back to Minas Tirith,” he said softly.

The Ranger smiled weakly, before a cough tore through his chest and out his lips. A little blood trickled out of one corner of his mouth. “I don’t have much…of a chance,” he whispered, his breathing harsh.

Faramir shook his head. “The blade pierced your lung,” he said. “We’ll try and get you back, but I cannot make any promises.” He had not lied to his men all the way through the bloody fighting of the war, and he did not intend to start lying to them now.

“I am sorry I cannot-“ Belhadron started to say, but the Ranger shook his head, more blood trickling from the side of his mouth.

“It is not…your fault,” he said. “Duilin, it is not his fault. You must know that.”

Duilin nodded, but his face was still contorted in anger and grief, and his grip on the Ranger’s hand tightened. The Ranger battled for a few moments, trying to keep his eyes open, but they would not remain open, and finally they fell shut, his head lolling to one side. His chest still rose and fell, but barely. All of it, from the moment Faramir had heard Belhadron call his name, had taken a minute, maybe less.

Beregond appeared at Faramir’s shoulder with a slight sigh, and Faramir stood up. “Get the best person with wounds to treat him as well as they are able,” he said. “And I want some men to fashion a stretcher. We’ll see if we can get him back to Minas Tirith.”

Beregond nodded. “Mablung shouldn’t be too far out, and then we can use the horses,” he said. “We have twenty two alive Easterlings, and graves are being dug.” By and large, the bustle in the camp had gone on around the small group.

Another Ranger, called over by Beregond, knelt down beside the fallen Ranger and Belhadron stood up, relinquishing his hold on the sodden cloak. He made his way over to Faramir, who passed him a scrap of torn cloth to clean his hands.

“Can you see if Mablung is close?” Faramir asked Belhadron. “I want to be able to move out and back to Osgiliath as soon as possible.”

Belhadron nodded. “I need quiet,” he said, looking around at the hectic camp. “To concentrate.” The trees were unused to him here, and it was not like at home, where most elves could easily slip into the song of the forests. This took patience.

Faramir nodded, and Belhadron moved away with him to the edge of the camp. With a heavy sigh he leant against one of the trees, pushing images of blood out of his mind, and silently apologising to the tree for his stained hands. It took a few minutes for him to relax enough, still tensed up after the skirmish, but eventually he managed to push his senses out through the surrounding woods, even if it was pretty touch and go.

Faramir stood by his side, watching the camp as his Rangers moved around it, efficiently cleaning up. After a few minutes, Belhadron opened his eyes. “Mablung is ten minutes out,” he said. “I think. It is hard to know for certain.”

Faramir nodded. “Good,” he said. “We’ll return to Osgiliath and then journey on to Minas Tirith now we have the last remainder of the Easterlings. I’m leaving every captain other than Mablung out here with a hundred men to ensure they are all gone.”

Belhadron nodded as he watched the Rangers move around the camp. His gaze flickered to Duilin and the fallen Ranger, and he sighed ever so slightly. He had seen many similar wounds in his time, and though he had seen how less resilient mortals were to injury at the battle outside Erebor, it still surprised him. Such a wound in Mirkwood would have been serious, maybe life threatening, but if lucky, an elf could withstand such a thing.

The rest of the rangers continued unheeded around the small group crouched with the fallen Ranger, save for the occasional sympathetic word or smile, or a touch to Duilin’s shoulder. Belhadron watched them move past him and Faramir, moving Easterlings, packing up the camp and treating their own wounds.

It was a strange sense of detachment he felt, surrounded by men. They moved so swiftly through time, and Belhadron had seen men from Laketown and Dale age from a young man to an old one in a span of time that he hardly considered long at all. The world here was mortal, and time moved as if for a mortal. It was strange.

Next to him Faramir sighed slightly, and then turned to him. “Was there anything at all that you could have done for him, that we could not?” he asked, not liking having to ask the question, but deciding it was necessary. He had supported Belhadron’s claim of no magic earlier to try and placate Duilin, but he still harboured doubts.

The corners of Belhadron’s lips turned up slightly. “I have no magic,” he said again. “And I am no healer.”

“But you have lived far longer than all of us together,” pointed out Faramir. “Surely you must have had time to learn, at some point.” He had been taught the basics of healing from a young age, mainly at his own and Boromir’s insistence. Boromir had argued with their father, saying that as captains they needed to know as much as they could to protect their men and Denethor, once confronted with his…preferred son, agreed.

Belhadron shook his head. “I am a soldier,” he said. “A captain. I cannot be a healer.”

“Cannot?” asked Faramir. “That is a strange choice of words.”

Belhadron frowned, and paused for a little while. Eventually he shook his head. “I cannot…it is very hard to explain,” he said. “I will ask Legolas to tell you, if you want. But I take life. I cannot give it as well.”

Faramir nodded slightly, and thought that maybe he understood Belhadron a little. He himself knew very few people who could fight well and act as a healer. There were soldiers who had learnt enough to stitch wounds or splint bones on a battlefield, and of course King Elessar was a renowned healer, but Faramir thought he knew what Belhadron meant. They were soldiers, and they killed people who were trying to kill them. To be a healer as well was to be too much.

Faramir’s gaze fell back to the Ranger yet again, and he shook his head slightly. He could not shake the feeling that this was not meant to be happening anymore. “He did not deserve this,” he murmured softly.

Belhadron looked over at him, and to both his own and Faramir’s surprise he smiled wryly. “We know a lot of men who did not deserve death,” he said. “Somehow, they still died.”

Faramir paused, and then for some reason, which he couldn’t work out, he chuckled slightly. It may have been Belhadron’s tone, the dry comment that spoke of far too long to become accustomed to such things, or the fact that he hadn’t quite sorted out the fact in his head that another man might be dying when the war had ended a year ago. But his lips still curved in a smile, before he found himself wondering why and stopped.

0-o-0-o-0

It took a little while, but eventually the camp was packed away and the Easterlings, those who were alive, were roped together and moved out. Mablung had arrived with his men not too long after the Ranger fell unconscious and was moved onto a stretcher, and immediately a group of Mablung’s men were sent to take him back to the city, taking two of the horses with them. Ascar impatiently stood with the rest of the horses, his ears pinned back until Belhadron whistled and he nickered happily, making his way carefully to the elf. Belhadron pulled on his ears affectionately with a smile.

Mablung made his way over to Faramir, his gaze on the disappearing Ranger lying on the stretcher. “What happened?” he asked.

Faramir shook his head slightly. “A mistimed blow,” he said. “Or a lucky one, for the Easterling that dealt it.” Then again, maybe it hadn’t been, because there had been a dead Easterling lying next to the Ranger, and the thought he had killed him filled Faramir with a little bit of pride.

Mablung sighed softly. Belhadron looked over at Faramir. “I was- he will not survive,” he stated, a little of a question in his voice. Faramir shook his head.

“It is unlikely,” he said. “I have seen some survive worse, but they were not in the middle of a forest, and we had healers close.” He didn’t mention that it was only about three men he had seen survive such a stab wound, and none of them had ever healed fully.

“I did not think…” said Belhadron. He shook his head. “An elf would survive, maybe, but I know mortals are less...” He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence, but both men knew what he was saying anyway.

Mablung shook his head with a sour grimace. “You are lucky,” he said bitterly, thinking of the many men that he had watched die or left permanently wounded when an elf would have survived such injuries, and walked away without a scar.

Belhadron, to his surprise, chuckled morosely. “We are not lucky,” he said.

“You do not age, you cannot die from old age and fall ill, and even injured, you recover faster than a mortal, can survive from worse injuries than mortals. You seem quite lucky to me.” Mablung’s voice was soft, but both Belhadron and Faramir could hear the bitterness in his voice.

But Belhadron still shook his head. “Men die. We do not. You know the stories of us, the stories of what elves have done. Good and bad. You think how long ago it was.” Faramir glanced over at Belhadron, and the dark haired elf looked old, staring off into some middle distance that they could not see.

“I remember, and I …I do not go. I do not stop watching.” He shook his head, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face, and he turned to the two men beside him. “If I have luck, then you have luck also. You can go. I cannot.”

Both Faramir and Mablung were silent for a moment, and then Faramir chuckled. “It seems like we both want each other’s fates,” he said with a wry smile. Truthfully, he had been envious of elven immortality when he was younger. To a child, or even a young man, living forever was what everyone envied of the elves, their tireless, endless grace. It was only now, after years of fighting and war that Faramir possibly understood why Belhadron had said they were not so lucky in their fate.

He was tired by a few decades of darkness and war. Elves like Belhadron had endured it for centuries.

They rode out soon after, Ascar snorting impatiently every so often at not being allowed to run forwards. Belhadron merely murmured something under his breath every time, half-heartedly tugging at Ascar’s dark mane. A bird spiralled upwards on the breeze above them, and he watched the lazy beat of her wings until she vanished even out of his sight.

To Be Continued...


	16. Chapter 16

It took them a day to get out of Ithilien and onto the road to Osgiliath, stopping for the night amongst the woods with the injured Ranger continuing on to the city. Belhadron had taken watch once again, and this time perched up on a low branch of one of the trees. Again, his knees had been drawn up to his chest and held loosely there by encircled arms. His quiver had hung from one branch, his sword belt next to it. He had spent the night cleaning his weapons, and Rangers had fallen asleep to the surprisingly comforting sound of a whetstone against steel.

By the time they returned to Minas Tirith, it had been a week and a half since they had left. Faramir and Belhadron rode up to the sixth level together. Mablung had been with them until the fourth level, when he had suddenly reined in his horse as a pregnant woman stepped out onto the main street. Mablung had flung himself off his horse and rushed to his wife once Faramir had nodded permission, and the two of them had disappeared.

Faramir reined in his horse at the gate to the sixth level. Beregond stopped and looked back, about to ask, but Faramir held up his hand, asking for a minute. Belhadron touched Ascar on the neck and the stallion obediently stopped.

Faramir turned to the elf. “I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For coming. I know it was not the easiest thing to do, to go back to battle.”

“Why do you speak this?” asked Belhadron, his voice merely curious, and Faramir smiled softly.

“We should not have to fight anymore,” said Faramir simply. “The war ended a year ago.” Belhadron chuckled wryly.

“Are you certain?” he asked wryly. “It is easy to forget.” Faramir laughed softly, but there was a tinge of sorrow in the sound.

“But thank you,” said Belhadron. Ascar pawed impatiently, and Belhadron nudged his flanks with his heels, allowing him to begin to walk forwards again. “Though I think it will be a long time before we find fighting strange.”

Faramir nodded. “I suppose it will be,” he said, and he pushed his horse forwards under the archway to enter the sixth level of the city.

Aragorn and Legolas met them on the sixth level outside the stables, and both of them seemed to deflate with relief ever so slightly at seeing Faramir and Belhadron. Aragorn murmured something to Legolas, and then both of them stepped forwards as Faramir and Belhadron, Beregond behind them leading Mablung’s horse, dismounted.

“Faramir,” said Aragorn with a smile, clasping his arm. Legolas had briefly pulled Belhadron into an embrace and the two were talking softly in the rolling tongue of Silvan, a small smile on both their faces. “I’ve heard all the reports.”

Faramir nodded. “It went well,” he said. “I’ve left the other captains in Ithilien with close to a hundred men. They will continue to check the southern areas for any men that slipped through the gaps, but for now I think Ithilien is clear.” He handed his horse over to a stable hand, gently patting the stallion’s neck in a small thank you.

Aragorn nodded, and then his face sobered. “The Ranger who was wounded in the last skirmish,” he said. “He returned to the city earlier today but the healers got to him too late, and he died about ten hours ago.”

Faramir sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I thought it would come to that,” he said honestly. “That wound was not something he would have been able to come back from very easily, if at all.” He was slightly surprised that the Ranger had managed to cling on for the return journey to the city, but then he supposed he should not doubt the will of his men, after all they had done. “Has he family in the city? He was never under my command, so I don’t know.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I spoke to his captain. He has a sister in Dol Amroth. No wife or children and no other family. His captain is making arrangements for his body to be sent to her to be buried.”

Faramir nodded again, with a slight sigh. As if that made it any easier to know someone was dead. It was strange, how they measured grief over someone by how much they left behind: friends, a family, a life left unlived. As if someone who left behind less was less worthy of being grieved, or being mourned.

Standing a little apart, Belhadron was telling Legolas broadly of what happened in Ithilien, and the blond elf noticed the slight tiredness in his voice, the way he rubbed at the dried blood on his hands. With a smile and a farewell to Aragorn, the two elves took their leave and headed up to the citadel, leaving Faramir and Aragorn standing still in the yard.

Faramir idly scraped some of the Ranger’s dried blood off his hands, and then stilled, looking down at the red brown flecks. Aragorn looked over at him.

“It is not your fault,” he said softly, and he stepped forwards towards the citadel, Faramir following.

Faramir grimaced slightly. “You and I both know that is not entirely true, my Lord,” he said. “I gave the orders to take the Easterlings, when I knew our numbers were not wholly sufficient. I knew the risk that I was taking. It was an acceptable risk, otherwise I would not have taken it, but a risk nonetheless, and this time, it got a man killed.” Though he had been in command of men for a long time now, though he had seen many of them die, still he carried the guilt of their deaths a little. Not all of it, because the world was not fair and he would not survive that weight, but enough.

Aragorn seemed to guess what he was thinking, because he shook his head. “I trust in your decisions,” he said. “But a little over a year ago, we would have hardly thought of one death like this.”

“The view is vastly different on the other side of war, and it will take a while to realise that. But remember that, whilst men may be responsible for many things, many evils and hurts, I do not think that war is something we came up with.”

Faramir smiled despite himself. “I suppose we did not,” he said softly. They reached the top of the steps up to the citadel, and Faramir smiled upon seeing Eowyn waiting under the shade of the White Tree. She moved forwards and reached out, taking one of his hands despite the dried blood smeared in places. Aragorn smiled.

“Take some rest,” he said to Faramir. “I will speak to you this evening.” He nodded and turned to walk away. Faramir turned to Eowyn with a smile.

“You are unhurt?” she asked.

“I am,” he said, his voice a little weary. She squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture. “I will be alright,” he said, turning to look out over the peace of the Pelennor in the late afternoon. “The view just takes some getting used to.”

0-o-0-o-0

Belhadron tugged his long dark hair out from where it had been trapped under the collar of his shirt, and turned to Legolas. “Better?”

“It always looks better without the bloodstains,” said Legolas. He leant back in his chair as Belhadron brushed his fingers through his hair, wincing as they caught on a knot. “You didn’t get hurt at all?”

Belhadron rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I get confused why people think I am protective of you,” he said with a smirk. “I am sure you would know if I were hurt. You always do.”

Legolas smiled, and inclined his head. “You once managed to hide an arrow wound from me for a day, if you remember.” That had been another interesting time about two hundred years ago, when orcs from Dol Guldur hoped to use the distraction of Smaug to venture further north into Mirkwood.

Belhadron laughed. “That hardly counts. You were unconscious and then disorientated for most of that day anyway. And it was barely an arrow wound. Closer to a graze, I would say.” They had ambushed a small party of orcs, but they themselves hadn’t had large numbers and the terrain had been difficult, even for elves. An orc had flung itself at Legolas and though the elf had killed it, shooting it through the chest, he had been pushed over the small cliff they were fighting next to, knocking himself out on the way down, if only for a minute. In the grand scale of all the battles they had fought under those trees, this one was barely anything, unmemorable if not for their elven memories.

“So you like Ithilien?” asked Legolas. Belhadron nodded.

“It is young,” he replied with a soft smile. “And all together different from home. I think that yours and Aragorn’s plan could work well. We can’t do anything at the moment, I don’t think.” They all needed some time to realise that the darkness was truly gone and not coming back.

“You’re right,” said Legolas. “But in a few years, maybe a decade at most, we could make it work. Do you think we can work with the men of Gondor?”

Belhadron hesitated. “It might take a little time,” he said thoughtfully. “I spent a while convincing Faramir that I did not have…magic.” Legolas laughed at that, for it had been not an uncommon belief amongst those of Laketown and Dale, and whilst Belhadron had had very little contact with them, as a Prince he had come to know them a little better, and had heard talk of such magic amongst the men.

“But he is a good man,” said Belhadron with a smile. “He is learned, in a way that I was not expecting of men, and is a good captain.” It was good to know that their history would not be easily forgotten when the elves had all but left these shores, even if it was mostly Noldor history, and Silvan elves barely featured.

Legolas nodded, and then a thought suddenly struck him. “What happened to that Ranger?” he asked. “The one who died? Aragorn told me when the news came up to the citadel, but he didn’t know much details of the skirmish. Who was he?”

Belhadron shrugged. “He was stabbed in the chest, but his name I don’t know,” he said. The next moment he stopped suddenly, as if frozen. When he turned back to Legolas, his eyes were wide and filled with horror.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Ai Valar, a man died and I just…I cared and then I just…I just stopped.” He ran one hand over his face, tugging slightly on his hair.

Legolas stood, coming to stand opposite him. “Belhadron-“ he started to say, but the elf in question shook his head sharply.

“Don’t,” he said bitterly. He slumped against the wall. “Just…don’t.” He laughed bitterly. “Elbereth. Has everything left me so damn damaged that I don’t even care when someone dies? For the sake of the Valar, Legolas, I was the one who pressed a bunched up cloak to his chest to try and stop the bleeding!” Belhadron ran a hand over his face, cursing under his breath in what Legolas thought sounded like Khuzdul.

“You did what you had to do,” said Legolas, leaning on the back of the chair.

“That’s just it,” said Belhadron with a grimace. “It’s over. We don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Fair enough,” said Legolas. “Let me amend what I said. You did what you have learnt to do, because one year cannot undo a lifetime of training, Belhadron, and you know that. You did what we always did, which was to shut it out, and not think of it, because otherwise we risked it being all brought down around us.”

Belhadron shook his head, and Legolas held back a sigh. “Don’t feel guilt for what we have all learnt to survive,” he pointed out. “I would much rather you stopped caring about a man’s death now, when we have won and are still standing, than you cared and died a hundred years ago.”

Belhadron glared at him, and Legolas’ face softened. “We have been trained to forget those who died, mellon-nin,” he said softly. “Because otherwise to keep fighting would have been impossible. Forget is the wrong word, I suppose, because I don’t think we are ever going to forget, but we certainly did our best. We stopped thinking of it. And you cannot blame yourself for a survival technique.”

Belhadron sighed, and he suddenly looked broken, the near perfect mask slipping from his face to fall to splinter into pieces on the floor. And Legolas watched without a measure of pity, because he knew that was just what everyone who had been through this war looked like, when they didn’t care about maintaining the charade, and his pity was not deserving of them.

“It was easy,” Belhadron murmured, his gaze falling onto the floor. “Surviving the war. It was surprisingly easy.” He sighed heavily, and looked up to see Legolas watching him carefully. Despite himself, he grinned. “Do not look so worried,” he said. “I am being melancholy. I will be alright.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Legolas said, a sad smile across his face. “Fighting, surviving the fighting, has always been surprisingly easy. We had a purpose, mellon-nin, and no time to think of much else. Dying in the war would have been easy as well: all it would have taken was a well-timed blow or arrow. It’s surviving all of this that is going to be difficult.”

Belhadron chuckled. “You make it sound so much more than it is,” he said with a wry smile. “We don’t have to survive anything anymore.” But even as he said it, he knew it was not entirely true.

Legolas chuckled. “Maybe so,” he said. “Maybe so.” He pulled Belhadron’s soft leather jacket off the back of the chair and handed it over. The dark-haired elf pulled it on with a wry smile.

“We always knew it would be something like this,” he said. “And I should not be complaining that we triumphed.” He shook his head. “We should go.”

The two elves left the room, and the door swung shut behind them with a soft click. In the grate, the remains of the fire smouldered with a deep orange.

To Be Continued...


	17. Chapter 17

Aragorn sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "What is the date today?" he asked.

Faramir looked up from where he had been writing something on a scroll of parchment on the other side of Aragorn's desk. Once a week or so, Faramir would sit down with Aragorn to go through anything important that needed to be discussed, and to clear as much of the papers from their desks as possible.

Faramir thought for a moment before managing to realise what day it actually was. Aragorn nodded, and wrote it down on the top of the parchment. "Do I need you to sign this as well?"

"I don't know what that is, my Lord," said Faramir with a smile, leaning over to read the report upside down. He shook his head. "No, I need to find a captain who was actually present to sign off on it. I can send it down to Mablung. He will know who was there."

Aragorn nodded and signed the bottom of the scroll. He pushed it to one side, sighing softly. "What else is there?"

"You need to read through this," said Faramir, passing over yet another parchment piece, which was considerably longer than the previous ones. Aragorn unrolled it, and then raised one eyebrow.

"Do I have time to read through all of this?" he asked with a chuckle, and Faramir smiled.

"You need to be able to appear as if you have read all of this," he said. "It's from one of the councillors, so I doubt much of it is actually of any interest. Essentially we have enough stored grain for the winter but need more people working on the farms if we are going to have a better harvest this year, what with half of the men being dead and some of the land being destroyed."

Aragorn nodded. "We can do that," he said, putting the scroll to one side. If he had time later, he would read through it properly. "Pull fifty men from working on the construction of Osgiliath and allocate them to areas where they are needed the most."

Faramir made a note on a scrap piece of parchment. "One more thing," he said, sitting back slightly and putting down his quill. "We currently have about eighty, ninety Easterlings sitting in prisons in this city. We have about twenty more who are badly wounded. We have to do something with them, my Lord."

Aragorn sighed, running one hand through his hair. "I know," he said. "And the laws of Gondor permit me to sentence them to death, do they not?" He grimaced slightly at Faramir's nod. "I don't want to do that," he said. "An ambassador for the Easterlings is on his way here now, I hope. I sent word for him as soon as this whole situation began, so he should be here soon."

"If the men are not operating under the command of their leaders in Rhun, then I will release most of the men back to the ambassador, for their King or leader to do with them what he will." He grimaced. "They signed a treaty, after all, and I think a threat from us about the stability of that treaty will be more than enough to ensure their cooperation."

Faramir nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose that makes sense," he said. "But I wouldn't send all of the men back. If we keep twenty of them, some of the captains and the lesser men, we can use them as insurance. I don't really like the idea of it, but…" He shrugged, and that sort of said it all.

"I know," said Aragorn. "Speak to the councillors, and see if they will agree to it. At the very least, I want to keep the captains here. The one who was in charge of the last group is certainly staying in prison here for the time being, as we can charge him with actual murder as well. But for the time being, I don't want any of them executed. If it comes to it, and is absolutely necessary, then it will happen, but not for now." He ran a hand over his face. "There's been too much killing for a lifetime."

Faramir nodded in agreement. "I don't think we're going to have any more problems with men in Ithilien," he said. "I'll keep a presence out there for a few months, at least, just some light patrolling from Osgiliath, but the trouble is gone."

Aragorn hummed in agreement. "Some other problem will come from somewhere else," he pointed out. He chuckled dryly. "At least it will keep us busy."

Faramir laughed slightly. "I suppose it will. The work never really ends." And it was a nice distraction from…well, everything else, he supposed. It was easier to forget the past, to forget the guilt and sorrow and regret when your mind was occupied by something happening in the present.

"Has the Ranger's body been sent to his sister?" Aragorn asked, juggling paper on his desk. Faramir nodded.

"He should have reached Dol Amroth the day before yesterday, I think. I made sure that I gave the messenger the letter." That sealed piece of parchment that expressed, in what seemed like repetitive words by now, how sorry they were for her loss.

Aragorn looked up at Faramir with his searching grey eyes. "It is not anyone's fault that he died," he said softly. "It is not my fault for ordering you to track down the men in Ithilien, it is not your fault for stepping in when you did. And if this had happened a little over a year ago, then nobody would have thought twice about his death."

"I know, my Lord," said Faramir. "I do. But he was still under my command. I know I once lost most of the men who were under my command at one point, and that was not my fault." He winced at the still raw flashes of memory, and Aragorn winced slightly as well, more at the thought of what had happened than the actual memories, though he had memories enough to make him unable to sleep at night, if he chose to drag them up.

Drag probably wasn't the right word.

"Anyway," said Faramir. "I know I could have done nothing more. But still…" He shrugged slightly, and Aragorn smiled in understanding.

"Suffice it to say that you know you have done everything right," he said. "And I am quite glad you are my Steward."

Faramir laughed slightly. "I do not think you will be as glad when I hand you these," he said, picking up a bundle of scrolls from beside his chair. "These all need reading and your signature, and then a couple of orders need writing up. I need to drop a few things off with Mablung."

Aragorn nodded, his attention already going back to the scroll in front of him. He finished writing, and then held the piece out to Faramir. "Could you pass this on to one of the councillors? If you see Legolas or Belhadron around, tell them I'll be around in a few moments." He smiled. "Belhadron mentioned sparring sometime soon. I will let you know, because elven sparring is not something to be missed. And then I think we're done for the day."

Faramir nodded. "I'll get back to you with these later. Good day, my Lord," he said, pulling the door open. Aragorn looked up and smiled, his grey eyes mellowing into the colour of warm ash in a hearth.

"Good day, Faramir," he said. The door swung shut, and he sighed, going to run his hand through his hair, before remembering he was still holding onto the quill in his hand and was about to get ink on his face.

Aragorn pulled his attention back to the things in front of him. A few more documents, and he would be done. Unfortunately, the scrolls in front of him were rather dull, and his mind wandered a little.

He had meant what he had said to Faramir. The Ranger's death had not been his fault; it had not been anyone's fault, for this was the way that war worked.

Except they were not at war. They had not been at war for over a year. Aragorn grimaced slightly, signing off on something and pulling another piece of parchment towards him. The old mind-set was far too familiar and easy to slip back into, and he remembered just how lightly they used to treat death.

Guilt was always present, he supposed, but he had learnt long ago to ignore it. Aragorn pushed his mind away from such thoughts, and with a smile he realised that however tedious paperwork always was, in some ways, given what could have happened, he really didn't mind sitting here and doing it at all.

0-o-0-o-0

A little while later, the door to Aragorn's study was pushed open, and the man looked up to see Belhadron in the doorway. Aragorn sat back with a smile.

"I am nearly done," he said, pushing the paperwork away from him with a grimace. "Where is Legolas?"

"Fetching his knives," replied Belhadron. He moved over and sat down on the edge of the desk with a smirk at the scrolls of parchment littering the top. "This is why I avoided court."

"I have no such luxury," said Aragorn with a slight grimace. "But it is not so bad."

Belhadron shrugged. Something caught his eye, and he reached over and picked up a large shell that was sitting as a paperweight. He ran his thumb over the rough, pale cream edges. "What is this?"

"A shell from the sea," replied Aragorn. "It's been here a while now. I don't know who it came from." He watched Belhadron as the elf turned it over in his hands, running his fingers gently over the rough shell.

"What is it like?" asked Belhadron. "The sea. I've never left the Woodland Realm, really, and have been nowhere near a coastline my entire life."

Aragorn sighed slightly. "I haven't been on the coast much," he said. "And it's a little hard to describe." He thought about it for a moment, before opening his mouth again. "Have you ever stood at the top of the Long Lake and looked out across it? The sea looks a little like that, when you cannot see the other shore, but it spreads to the side as well, until your entire view is taken up by the blue expanse. It's never still on the coast; there's always a breeze blowing the salt spray inland. I suppose to an elf, there is even more."

Belhadron shrugged. "If there is, I wouldn't know," he said with a light smile.

"I know you didn't know, or Legolas hadn't told you, but has he not tried to explain it at all?" asked Aragorn. The elf had attempted, at least, an explanation to him, even if it couldn't really be called such a thing.

Belhadron shook his head. "I did not ask," he said with a wry smile. "Unusual for me, but I would have no hope of understanding. Essentially, I was not there. And that makes all the difference."

"I suppose it does," mused Aragorn, leaning back in his chair and idly playing with a small carved wooden horse than sat on his desk. "You were not annoyed with him, though?"

Belhadron laughed. "I have known him for hundreds of years, if not more. I have had plenty of time to become used to his stubbornness. Besides," he said with a wry smile. "I have not told him everything either."

Aragorn looked curious, but didn't press. Belhadron smiled slightly, and for some reason the small ash-handled knife appeared in his hands. He flipped it, over and over.

"I don't like…fire, anymore," he said. "You've probably noticed." His mouth twisted in a wry smiled that became more of a grimace.

"Legolas told me," said Aragorn. "And anyway, I have read all of the reports. I know that large swathes of the forest were…burnt." He didn't miss the ever so slight flinch of Belhadron, the way the elf's knuckles whitened as his hand tightened on the hilt of his knife.

"Reports don't really cover it," Belhadron said easily, a small grin coming across his face. "Not at all." He paused. "Have you ever been in a wood that is burning?"

"Once," said Aragorn. "Sort of. I was in a village when they burnt down a copse to clear land for farming, and ended up helping to control the fire. But that's not the same."

"It's not," said Belhadron with a nod. "The reports say how much of the woods burnt, where the fires were, and how many died. They don't detail the smoke that made it impossible to see the orcs until they were almost upon you. They don't speak of the sound of…of burning."

Aragorn grimaced. "I would say I am sorry, but you are in no way deserving of my pity."

Belhadron laughed, a smile coming across his face. "If that is the case, then nobody will be able to say sorry to anyone anymore. I do not regret anything. I do not mind the memories, not if it is the price we ended up paying for peace."

Aragorn smiled. "Well, I am sorry then. I'm sorry you have had to fight this for so long, when men only have to fight for the span of their short life. But I agree. The scars are a small price to pay."

Belhadron smiled sadly. "And I am sorry we did not manage to do more before you stepped up to become what you had to be. I am sorry we didn't stop it, even though I know it is not our fault." He chuckled. "Listen to us. You would not think we are where we are, from what we are saying. You would not think we had won."

Aragorn smiled. "It is easy to forget." He stood up from his chair. "Legolas must have found his knives by now. Come. Faramir has never seen elven sparring before."

Belhadron chuckled. "He has not seen anything yet, then," he said, standing from where he had been sat on the edge of Aragorn's desk. He slipped his knife back into the sheath at the small of his back. "Lead the way."

Aragorn smiled, and then the two left his study, the door swinging shut behind them. On the desk, the shell lay haphazardly next to the old wooden horse.

0-o-0-o-0

The day was warm, as summer days in Gondor often were, and as such the gardens were in full bloom. And whilst Minas Tirith was a city of stone, there were a few secluded green spaces hidden amongst the upper levels of the city.

Arwen smiled happily as she looked up at the green canopy above her. She was sitting on the grass in the small garden of the citadel, her skirts fanned out around her and a book in her lap.

Eowyn, sitting next to her with another book, looked up and smiled. "The city is beautiful," she said. "But it is still stone."

Arwen's gaze fell on her, and she smiled. "I admit I miss the rolling valleys of Imladris," she said. "But this garden is enough for now. And at least Ithilien grows not too far away." She smiled softly again, running her hand through the soft grass around her.

Their handmaidens sat nearby under the shade of another tree, talking softly. One was putting a braid in the other's hair, plucking daisies from the green carpet around her to add to it. There was a carpet spread out on the grass, a small one, with plates of light food set on it. Eowyn reached over and delicately picked up a tartlet.

"Has Faramir spoken to you of what happened in Ithilien?" asked Arwen softly. Eowyn nodded, taking another bite of the tartlet before putting it down on the small plate in front of her.

"He told me of the Ranger's death," she said. "He says he does not blame himself, but I know him better than that." She smiled slightly, the corners of her lips curling up. "He feels some measure of guilt still, I think." As he should, she thought privately. Not because it was his fault, but because it meant that the war had not stripped everything away from him, as she had seen happen to some others.

Arwen nodded. "Aragorn does as well, I believe. And I think he had realised how lightly we all treated death during the war. We had to, of course, but for many, including my sometimes stubborn husband, they have not realised yet it is over."

Eowyn inclined her head, a smile coming across her face. "I thought it was only Faramir who was so stubborn," he said, and Arwen chuckled. "But truthfully, I understand. It has only been a year, after all."

"You will remain in Ithilien when the house is finished?" asked Arwen. Eowyn nodded.

"For the most part, I believe. I cannot remain fully in the city." She smiled softly. "I grew up in Meduseld, and there I was never more than a few rooms from the open sky and the mountains and the wind." She chuckled. "I am still very much the White Lady of Rohan, as it were, though I have become married to Gondor."

Arwen laughed. "I know very well what you mean," she said. "I have spent so much of my life in Imladris or Lothlorien. Stone cities are rather unfamiliar to me, I must admit. But you will spend some time here?"

"With Faramir, most likely," replied Eowyn. "And Emyn Armen is within sight of the city. Riding from there to here will not be a difficult task." She smiled softly at the thought of galloping across the Pelennor, and found herself missing the wide, open rolling fields of Rohan. As a wedding gift Eomer had given both her and Faramir some of the best horses from his stables each, and she was looking forwards to taking her horse out again across the Pelennor again when she had the time, and maybe when Faramir was not as busy.

Arwen smiled softly, speaking of her own palfrey that she brought to the city, and the next few minutes horses took over their conversation. After a while they fell silent, and then Arwen sighed softly, looking towards the Ephel Duath.

"The shadow still lingers," murmured Eowyn, following Arwen's gaze.

"It will for a while yet," said Arwen, but her voice was matter of fact, not nostalgic or wistful. She shifted her skirts around her. "We always knew this would not end with everything like it was at the beginning, especially not the beginning I remember. To have a lingering shadow, to have loss, is a price we have ended up paying, but it is better than what the alternative could have been."

Eowyn shivered at the thought of what her alternative would have been: cut down on the battlefield just outside the city where she sat, or brought to the ground by the Witch-king, or slowly losing her will in the Houses of Healing in the city and succumbing to her wounds. So many ways that everything could have changed.

"We cannot go back," she said softly. Arwen murmured sympathetically, and gently clasped her hand, but Eowyn turned and smiled at her. "What we have now, it was this or our deaths. It has always been this or death, I think. You and I both know that there is no world where we can go back to that point where things were not so dark."

"No, we cannot," said Arwen. "But would you want to?"

"No," said Eowyn with a smile. "No, I would not. What I have now, what we have gained, is good enough for me."

Arwen reached over and picked up a small lemon cake, smiling slightly as she bit into it. "So it is for me," she said. "And we do not have to dwell on such things right now, not when there are such delicious cakes to distract us."

Eowyn laughed, picking up a cake of her own. Her gaze flitted upwards to the green leaves above them, still in the late morning air. The scent of growing things surrounded them, and she could feel her fingers growing sticky from the cake in her hand.

"We do not," she said with a smile, taking a bite.

To Be Continued...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has read this, it really means a lot to me. This story in particular means quite a lot for me. I wrote some parts of this, particularly parts within these last chapters, when I was going through a bit of a rough time last winter. It would mean a lot to me if you would take the time to read the last few paragraphs of this story carefully. I think not enough people hear this message, sometimes, and if you are ever struggling, please, think of those last words. I hope that they can help.

Dawn in Gondor used to be a slow thing. The sun would creep over the Ephel Duath, and it seemed like it would spend the early hours of the morning pushing through the haze that always seemed to hang over the mountains. Only a few hours before noon would the sun finally break through and hang high in the sky, and as the years drew closer to the end, shortening to months and then weeks, the days seemed to shorten, dawn slowly fading into dusk without much else in between.

 

Now, though the sun rose exactly as it had before the twenty fifth of March, it was vastly different. The haze drifting over the mountains was merely the morning mist rolling off the forests of Ithilien, the sun glancing through the mist and falling first on the foothills of the Ephel Duath and then Ithilien, before finally reaching out to touch the wide open space of the Pelennor.

There came a soft sound from behind Legolas, who was sat on the wall on the edge of the courtyard, and the blond elf turned to see Faramir walking towards him. He smiled softly. “The sun has not yet fully risen,” he said. “Surely you can have a few more hours sleep?”

Faramir shook his head with a smile. “It is not too early,” he said, coming to lean on the courtyard wall next to Legolas. “And once awake I will not sleep again.” It didn’t matter whether he woke up with Eowyn in his arms as the light filtered through the curtains, or with a quickly muffled shout, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. Once awake, he knew he would not go back to sleep.

His gaze flitted to the sunrise, and he smiled. “A reassuring thing to watch, I think,” he murmured. The quiet of the morning did not lend itself to loud voices.

Legolas nodded, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. “The sun used to rise like this over Erebor,” he said. “In the forest, you could not see much of the sunrise through the trees. If the sun broke its way through the trees, then it could be beautiful, but the canopy is rather thick in some places.”

He sighed softly. “But if on the eastern border patrol, on the edge of the forest, or if you found a high enough tree near the stronghold, you could watch the sunrise in the east. It would climb up over Erebor, and Andnen would gleam in the morning sunlight.” He shook his head slightly as he smiled, seemingly remembering old memories.

“Andnen?” asked Faramir.

“The name in Sindarin for the Long Lake,” said Legolas with a smile. “Even after knowing your language for hundreds of years, it is sometimes easy to forget.” He chuckled. “Your tongue is a strange one, I must admit.”

Faramir shrugged. “I could say the same thing about Sindarin. I have learnt what I have had time for from the archives, but my vocabulary is woefully depleted.”

Legolas laughed. “When we return, Belhadron and I will teach you. It should not take too long to learn.”

“You are leaving soon?” asked Faramir. It had been a week or so since they returned from Ithilien, and the weight of the most recent death, the Ranger, has lessened. He felt a little guilty about that, but as Eowyn had rather sternly told him, they had done what was necessary to survive, and he should not feel guilt over it.

Legolas nodded. “In a few days. We must return home, at least for a few years. The forests need healing before we look beyond our borders.” He smiled softly. “But a few years is not so long for an elf.”

Faramir chuckled under his breath, and the two of them fell silent, watching as the rays of sunlight slowly moved towards them across Ithilien. The wind was blowing slightly from the east, and even in Minas Tirith, both Faramir and Legolas could smell a hint of the sweet air of the woods.

“Ithilien is young,” said Legolas with a soft smile. “And will, I think, be a welcome change for some. It may take some time, but,” he said with a chuckle. “We are elves, and at home in any trees.”

“Belhadron certainly seemed it,” said Faramir with a smile. “He tried to explain, how he could...talk to the forest, I suppose? That is the wrong word, of course, but-”

“I know what you mean,” said Legolas. “And it is a hard thing to explain. Trees cannot talk, not unless they are Ents, and we cannot talk to birds and beasts such as we are talking now. But we can, for lack of a better explanation, sense the undercurrent running through all things wild. Birds back home have known us for so long that we can, in all essence, speak with them, and the trees are almost the same.”

“Belhadron has always been more sensitive to it than I have,” Legolas said. Faramir raised one eyebrow in surprise, and Legolas nodded. “I am not truly a Silvan elf, though there is little distinction now except in blood. But I have Sindarin blood, not Silvan, and though we are both elves of the forests, Silvan elves are closer, in a way, to the song left by the Valar. Belhadron is fully Silvan. It is what has made him such a good tracker, I think.”

Faramir shook his head slightly, and Legolas laughed. “You hear the tales of the First Age, of Gondolin, Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the War of Wrath, and all that time there were elves this side of Ered Luin. And though tales are known of Doriath, of the Sindar elves from which I am descended, the Noldor wrote it.”

Faramir laughed. “I suppose they did,” he said. History had a habit of becoming a little biased towards those who had the quills in their hands.

“How many do you think would come from Eryn Lasgalen?” asked Faramir, leaning more heavily on the stone wall. Below them the city was beginning to wake as the sun steadily meandered towards it, and the noise of the first market stalls could just be heard. Legolas shrugged.

“At least a few hundred,” said Legolas. “Maybe more. I do not know exactly. Home feels more…distant now, since I returned, as if I no longer understand it as well as I used to.” He chuckled wryly. “I suppose that is what comes of leaving just before the war had truly arrived on our doorstep.” His voice sounded bitter, almost guilty, even though his rational mind knew full well he could not have changed the outcome in Mirkwood much.

Faramir shook his head. “We both know that there was never any chance of us coming through unscathed,” he said. “We knew that as soon as we picked up weapons, I think, as soon as the first person lay dead because of us. We knew there would always be scars, if the wounds did not kill us in the first place.” As he spoke, his hand almost unconsciously drifted up to the puckered skin high on his chest, where the Southron dart had struck a little over a year ago.

Legolas nodded, his face a little shadowed by some mixture of emotion that Faramir suspected was all too familiar to any soldier now. But it was less than it perhaps had been a few weeks ago, less than the initial weeks and months after the war was won when everyone’s faces seemed to be veiled, when they thought nobody was looking.

“They say time heals all wounds,” murmured Legolas after a moment. The corners of his lips twitched in a wry smile. “Whoever they are, they have never lived an elven life.”

“They have never lived through something like this,” pointed out Faramir. “I doubt they actually exist at all. It seems like they are the people who everyone seems to talk about, but when you search, can’t seem to be found.”

Legolas laughed. “That sounds true,” he said with a smile. He chuckled again, and the talk turned to lighter things, idle conversation as they watched the sunrise. At one point, Legolas laughed, leaning back dangerously far on the wall, and Faramir started. Legolas chuckled. “I would not fall,” he said with a smile.

Faramir shook his head. “I did not think you would,” he said. “Not after seeing your impressive display a few days ago.”

He had seen Legolas fight, and he had seen Belhadron fight, but until a few days ago, he had never seen two elves fight one another. It had, to say the least, been breathtaking.

Legolas and Belhadron were near perfectly matched, and had each had one of Legolas’ wickedly sharp hunting knives. The grace with which they had moved, slashes and parries and footwork that was too fast for Faramir’s eyes to follow, it had been something Faramir had never seen before. For a few brief moments he wished he could live long enough to be able to fight with such skill, but then he remembered exactly why Legolas and Belhadron had needed to become so good, and he stopped wishing.

The first match had ended when Belhadron, seemingly giving up a little on the elegance and grace of the elves, got inside Legolas’ guard and bodily slammed him, knocking him to the floor and pressing his knife to Legolas’ throat. The blond elf had just lain there and laughed, grabbing hold of Belhadron’s arm and kicking his legs out from underneath him, flipping him so the dark-haired elf was on the ground as well.

It had taken a minute and Aragorn threatening them in a rush of Sindarin to get them both up and back on their feet, large smiles on both of their faces. They had begun again, and Faramir could see the two elves becoming less and less serious, until their final bout ended with both of them on the floor, again, in peals of merry laughter.

Still, Faramir had never seen two people move so fast. He said so, and Legolas chuckled.

“I think that was because Belhadron has not sparred simply for the sheer pleasure of it for a long time, and as such, was rather enjoying himself.” He laughed again, remembering the slightly sloppy blows that followed whenever either of them pulled off a more complicated manoeuvre, the large grin that had been on Belhadron’s face when Legolas had fallen to the floor.

It had been a while since Legolas had handed Belhadron one of his knives as well. It had been amusing for Legolas, as Belhadron had very occasionally forgotten he had a knife, not a sword, and attempted something that, whilst would have expertly disarmed Legolas with a sword, had fantastically failed with a hunting knife. If both of them had been serious, had been sparring to train, to get better for the next skirmish, then that would not have happened, because almost every elf in Mirkwood had known how to fight with pretty much every weapon. But the war was over now, and they had merely been having fun.

Besides, they all had favourites anyway. Legolas had always known he was going to be an archer, without a doubt, and he had never much liked picking up a sword. Belhadron, on the other hand, had always gravitated to the sword, and had only really picked up the bow once becoming Legolas’ second. The sword at his side now was actually Legolas’ old blade, the one he had hardly ever used and had given to Belhadron when the dark-haired elf had lost his in the Forest River.

Legolas paused, and then the sound of feet of feet on the stone floors reached Faramir’s ears as well. He turned to see Aragorn and Belhadron coming through the citadel doors, the guards bowing to Aragorn, who nodded back. The man and elf were talking animatedly about something, Belhadron laughing at something Aragorn was saying.

Legolas smiled as the two joined them by the wall of the courtyard. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to guess words in each other’s language,” replied Belhadron with a grin. Aragorn murmured a Westron translation to Faramir, who smiled, before continuing to speak with Belhadron. The dark-haired elf was guessing the meaning of Westron words that Aragorn gave him, and Aragorn in turn was attempting to work out Silvan words given to him by Belhadron.

“Is Silvan much different from Sindarin?” Faramir asked of Legolas. The blond elf shrugged.

“Technically, they are both Sindarin, but elves east of the Hithaeglir speak it with a Silvan dialect. But they have become so separate that they are essentially two different tongues.” He listened in to Aragorn and Belhadron, and chuckled.

“You are both wrong,” he said clearly. “You’ve lost some in translation, I think.”

“By all means, enlighten us,” said Aragorn with a smile, and Legolas chuckled, pointing out some finer details of the translation from Sindarin to Westron that had undoubtedly been forced into him at a young age by tutors.

Belhadron chuckled slightly from where he was standing in between Legolas and Faramir. His gaze drifted over to the east, to the rising sun, and his smile softened.

Faramir glanced over at him. “It is a good view, from up here,” he said quietly. Belhadron nodded.

“In the woods you cannot see Anar rise,” he said. “This is different.” His accent was less, after only a few weeks, and Faramir pointed it out with a smile. Belhadron nodded slightly. “The tongue is more easy-”

“Easier,” corrected Faramir automatically, and then froze for a second, before the dark-haired elf beside him chuckled.

“That does not make sense,” he complained with a wry smile. “It will be a long time before I can speak your tongue with ease. But it is…easier.” Legolas shifted on the wall, still debating with Aragorn, and Belhadron immediately glanced over. Once reassured that there was nothing wrong, he turned back to Faramir, who had a slight smile on his face. He took a pause to arrange the words in his head before speaking.

“Someone has to watch his back,” he said. He fell silent, watching the sun, and Legolas, without turning from his conversation with Aragorn, shifted so he was pressing slightly against Belhadron’s shoulder.

Faramir stood up from where he had been leaning a little on the wall. “If you will excuse me, my Lords, I promised Eowyn I would ride out with her across the Pelennor this morning.”

Aragorn nodded, stepping back a little to allow Faramir to stand away from the wall. “Of course,” he said. “Have a good day.” Faramir nodded with a smile at both Legolas and Belhadron, and then walked away into the citadel.

Belhadron sighed slightly, and vaulted up onto the stone wall, drawing his legs up so he was sat with his knees to his chest, facing east along the wall. Legolas slid off the stone and came to stand beside Aragorn as they watched the sun meander up over Ephel Duath.

He murmured a phrase in Silvan that made Aragorn frown. “What does that mean?” he asked, and Legolas chuckled.

“He said ‘it is’ and then a word that’s going to be quite hard to decide. There isn’t an exact Westron translation, I don’t think, and even in Sindarin it is a little dubious. It is one of those words which means an entire phrase in any other language. The closest I can come is probably ‘the sudden and unexplainable feeling of calm’, I think, although it could also be translated as ‘the feeling of walking through the woods alone’, if Elladan and Elrohir have a say in it.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Is that meant to be a good thing?” he asked. “Considering the woods you two grew up in, I would not like to walk alone in them.”

Belhadron shot a mock glare at Aragorn. “Our woods are perfectly fine, thank you very much,” he said, but he was grinning as he said it. “If you do not count the spiders.”

Both Aragorn and Legolas chuckled, and their talk turned to idle things, flimsy plans for Ithilien and the future, news from Dale and Erebor and Eryn Lasgalen, even the weather. Aragorn at one point pulled the pipe and his pouch of tobacco from one pocket, and Belhadron wrinkled his nose.

“If you are going to wreathe yourself in smoke, then I will not stay around to breathe it in,” he said with a grin, slipping down from the wall. “I was meaning to check on Ascar and Arod this morning anyway,” he said. “I will find you later.”

“You know your way?” asked Aragorn, and Belhadron nodded, walking off towards the entrance to the sixth level, the stone white steps that, in a few hours, would be gleaming in the sunlight.

Legolas watched him go, and then turned back to Aragorn, looking pointedly at him until Aragorn sighed, admitted defeat, and put his pipe back in a pocket. Legolas smiled in satisfaction. “It is a strange habit you, the Halflings and Mithrandir have. You do realise that people, especially fragile mortals-” At that, Aragorn chuckled and half-heartedly swatted at Legolas’ shoulder. The blond elf merely grinned, and continued.

“-That people are not made to inhale smoke. I cannot understand why you would do that to yourself.”

Aragorn laughed. “It’s relaxing?” he offered. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. It was something the Dunedain did, and as a young impressionable Ranger, I tried it. You do get used to it.”

Legolas shook his head. “It is the strangest mortal habit I have ever come across,” he said with a smile. Aragorn laughed softly, and shifted so he was leaning slightly against Legolas.

“Do you think…” he started, and then paused, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” asked Legolas, his voice soft. They watched the sun meander up over Ephel Duath, grey eyes and silver blue tracking it as colour slowly flooded into the sky. Aragorn sighed softly, a small smile coming across his face.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “That this is it. This is what we have won, what we have gained. And it’s by no means perfect.”

“It’s far, far better than what could have been,” pointed out Legolas with a wry smile. “Although we paid a heavy price, all of us, to get here. And I think that sometimes, everything…before? That was a lot easier.” It seemed selfish and cruel to say it, for before they had won the war people were dying, the world was dark. But they had had a purpose, they had known what they had had to do, and they had been able to have hope in the face of their inevitable failure that they would, at least, die doing the right thing.

And then they triumphed. It was still so much to take in.

Aragorn shrugged, and leant his weight into Legolas a little bit. His grey eyes stayed east, the morning sun glinting off them and turning them into the colour of the glowing ash embers of a fire.

“We will always be, for lack of a better word, damaged,” he said, guessing the thoughts running through the blond elf’s head. “It became inevitable the moment we stepped up to become what we had to be in order to survive, in order to challenge what so many had challenged before us. And to triumph we had to become even more, I think.”

Legolas nodded slightly, and Aragorn continued, the words suddenly flowing from his mouth as he stood in the morning quiet, Ithilien aglow in the distance, the Anduin a smooth ribbon of silver before them.

“It was this or death. It has always been this or death. You and I both know that there is no world where we can circle back to the beginning, to that point where we were, mostly, whole.”

Legolas smiled softly as Aragorn spoke, and then the smile widened and he laughed, a merry sound spiralling into the warm morning air. “We may not need to,” he said, tearing his gaze from the sunrise in front of them and looking over at Aragorn. His face looked young, to the man, something he had barely seen in the months they journeyed together.

“We do not need to go back,” he repeated, and his gaze journeyed over the courtyard, the ornate doors of the citadel, the White Tree growing tall in the courtyard, to fall back on Aragorn. The man smiled at him, and though the years did not leave him, the weight on his shoulders lessened and he seemed to stand a little straighter.

“We survived the war,” Legolas said, looking out across the Pelennor once again. “We survived the battles, survived the years of running and fighting and shadows. We will survive the scars everything has left us with. And we can survive this, I think. Surviving peace is not something either of us have ever done before, but I think we can try.”

Aragorn smiled. “What is the Silvan word for peace?” he asked suddenly, the random thought coming to his head.

“The same as Sindarin,” replied Legolas. “Sidh.” He smiled, rolling the word on his tongue. “Sidh.” He shook his head slightly, feeling the reassuring weight of Aragorn at his side.

“We can try,” he echoed of his earlier words. “And somehow, I do not think it will be so hard.”

“No, it will not,” said Aragorn. “And you are right. We do not need to circle back. This- what we have now?” He smiled softly.

“This is good.”

0-o-0-o-0

If you walk for long enough you still cannot come back around to where you were before. But even if you only take one step, that one step will still bring you to a different place. And if that place is not where you want to be, then take another step. Somewhere in amongst all of those steps you can find yourself walking quite a long way.

The scars were always inevitable. But scars are not the mark of a victim. They are the undeniable mark of a survivor, because no matter how deep the scars run, no matter what shape they are in, the body that bears them is still breathing. That heart is still beating, no matter the scars on it. And these scars bear a message.

They say bring it all.

Because I survived.

And I will survive again.

 

The End


End file.
